


The Thorny Path Series

by glacis



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-27
Updated: 2010-01-27
Packaged: 2017-10-06 18:06:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 32,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glacis/pseuds/glacis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A different take on Angel and Lindsey, consisting of: Forfeit - Giles makes a deal with Angelus to save Buffy's life, and pays a harsh price; His Place in the World - During the episode "Blind Date" Lindsey consorts with the enemy; A Slight Change of Plan, Plan A - Another version of "To Shansu In LA".  Sex, blood, death and betrayal abound in Angel's city; The Thorny Path (the Righteous shall walk) - Wolfram and Hart raise the stakes. Angel and Lindsey take the bet. The whole gang gets into the act.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Thorny Path Series

The Thorny Path series:  Forfeit, His Place in the World, A Slight Change of Plan, Plan A, and A Thorny Path (the Righteous Shall Walk).

 

_Forfeit, Giles’ perspective_

The Watcher is expendable. The Slayer is not.

This is a tenet around which I have built my adult life. Adolescent rebellion aside, I was bred for one purpose : to protect and support a Slayer. Oh, I know, the books say that the Watcher must not become emotionally involved; one Watcher may watch over more than one Slayer during his lifetime; the Council determines the extent of sacrifice the Watcher must make; the Watcher must follow the dictates of the Council.

I used to believe the books.

Then I met Buffy.

All the rules changed.

Along with Buffy came her coterie of friends, who have become part of my protected pack as well. We have been to hell and back.

Perhaps not back. Not quite yet.

I don't know if I loved Jenny. I do know I could have loved her, and she could have loved me. We'll never know. Angelus snapped her neck and left her in a parody of gifting, dead beneath my bedcovers. I hate him with a passion I haven't felt in years, if ever. For Buffy's sake, I keep it hidden, but I caution and counsel as much as she will allow. Her own nature, and circumstances, conspire against me.

Circumstances like these.

I stare down at the book. The illustrations stare back, mocking me. My Slayer is in mortal jeopardy, held captive by demons she cannot defeat. They can only be killed by one as dead as they. As much as Buffy consorts with the undead, she herself is vibrantly, brilliantly alive. She will not escape, and nothing she, nor her friends, nor I can do will effect her escape.

I'd almost rather ask Spike. Except he'd kill me, and Buffy would still be in peril. Spike is relatively straight-forward, considering his sire. Which thought leads me precisely back where I began, where I do not wish to be.

Angelus.

He enjoys tormenting her. When they made love, and I believe, for them, it was love, it ripped the soul from him, destroying not only his own happiness, but the illusion that Buffy could ever be happy, as well. One thing he doesn't want, however, is to kill her. He's not finished torturing her yet.

My only advantage. His ingrained sadism.

I hear the door slide open behind me, and every muscle in my body tenses.

"Hello, Giles." He has a lovely voice. Goes with the visage. But then, wasn't Lucifer the most lovely of the heavenly host?

"Please enter." My voice is steady, surprising me. He doesn't really need an invitation; he's had one before, and used it, viciously, when it was no longer offered. I can almost feel his suspicion in his silence.

A black-clad arm comes over my shoulder and a long finger traces the outline of the Brumont demon on the page. "Nasty devils," he comments mildly.

"They have Buffy," I respond bluntly. "We -- I need your help." I turn in my chair and stare up at him. He's standing too close for me to rise.

He's smiling. Even laughing, very softly.

"My help? Why on earth would you ask for **my** help?" His eyes are sparkling. I have never wanted to kill another being more in my entire life.

"Because you are the only dead man I know who doesn't want to kill her." More blunt truth.

His hand withdraws from the book, but he doesn't step back. He's staring at me, and his eyes are very dark. I'm faintly dizzy, unsure whether it's from unacknowledged fear or vertigo from staring too closely into those dark eyes. For a moment, I'm not sure I can stand the intensity of his stare, of his almost-physical touch. The reason for my bravery reasserts itself, and the dizziness abates.

I will do whatever I have to do to save my Slayer.

"There's a price." He leans impossibly closer, the shadow of a smile on his lips. I swallow. My mouth feels dry. There's always a price. I believe I know what this one will be. The terror frozen on Jenny's face when I found her flashes across my mind.

The Watcher is expendable. The Slayer is not. I'll pay his price. I'd say damn him, but he already is. As am I.

"I agree," I tell him firmly. The smile widens, and the sparkle in his eyes intensifies.

"Let's get started, then, shall we?"

The last night of my life is a strenuous one.

We walk to the crypt in silence. Once there, he holds up one hand, and I draw back. The Brumont are mere animals to vampires, though deadly to humans, and there is no reason to give Angelus another victim to rescue. He wouldn't let them kill me, either.

He reserves that pleasure for himself. His price.

Moving faster than any human, he dives into the crypt, breaking stone apart with his fists, descending like the wrath of Satan on the nest of Brumont. Buffy is chained to the far wall, bruises darkening her face, blood dried at her wrists under the manacles. I hug the perimeter, making my way to her, ducking the flying body of a demon as it impacts the wall behind me. In moments, I'm beside her. Her eyes are huge, and she looks very confused.

Not surprising in the least.

Three more Brumont die as Angelus, in full demon visage, rends them to pieces. I can't get the bloody manacles apart. Digging into the tool kit slung over my shoulder, I take out a pry bar and get to work on the joining of the chain to the wall.

A rush of displaced air startles me and I duck. Angelus snarls over my shoulder, catches the chains in one fist, and pulls them from the wall with a scattering of stone dust and sharp pebbles. I can feel his breath on the side of my neck as he pants, an odd thing for a being who doesn't breathe.

"Angel?" Buffy asks. He's back to fighting, and I shake my head, gathering up the chains. We can remove the manacles back at my flat.

"Angelus." She opens her mouth to query further, then pulls me down by the simple expedient of nearly strangling me with my own collar. Another body impacts the wall, directly where I'd been standing. "Thank you, Buffy." I attempt to smile reassuringly at her. The attempt obviously fails. I'm not very good at it in the best of times, and these are certainly not those.

The crypt is quiet. I raise my head and venture a look. Gouts of blood, torn flesh, a few severed heads, limbs scattered about, broken demon bodies flung every which way. Angelus was certainly thorough. But then, he always did enjoy himself in a fight. I peer more closely, but he's no longer there.

"You going to tell me what just went down here, Giles?"

Buffy is seldom, if ever, truly frightened, but she can be persistent if she's worried. I avoid her eyes, gathering up her chains again and handing them to her. "Let me take you home. We'll get the manacles off, and I'll explain."

No, I won't. Not completely. But as I pick at the rusty locks until her wrists are free, she accepts my explanation of a one-time binding spell, Angelus being the only demon who'd not kill her outright, and the fact that this doesn't mean he's any closer to having a soul than he has been since he lost it. Only the first part of the explanation is an outright lie, and Buffy usually tunes out of my metaphysical explanations. This time is no different than the usual, and luckily, Willow isn't here to catch the inconsistencies. Just Buffy, tired, bruised, and heartbroken. It takes little to convince her to go home, try to sleep, heal up. Make herself ready for another day of fighting evil.

At least she's not making deals with it.

The Watcher is expendable. The Slayer is not.

It has become my mantra.

Not knowing how much time I'll have, I check once more to make sure my documents are in order. The Watchers and the military : the two places one is certain to always have an updated last will and testament. I have just propped the letter I've left for Buffy against the small strongbox holding my documents, unlocked for her convenience, when the door opens and he walks inside my home.

I rise before he can block me against the desk again, moving to meet him. He's faster than I, not surprisingly, slamming the door, crossing the floor to stop inches from me, beside the sofa. I don't greet him. He looks at me, smiling that damnedable smile again, and I look back at him, determined to meet my death with some semblance of dignity. I don't want Buffy to see the same look on my face that I saw on Jenny's.

Unbuttoning my collar, I lift my left hand to my shirt, laying the fabric flat against my shoulder, baring my neck. Still looking at him, defiance and acceptance warring within me, I tilt my head to the left. My world narrows to the hunger and the laughter in his eyes, and the beat of my heart in the jugular vein running along the right side of my throat.

His hands are on me, one at my waist, the other at the back of my head. He moves closer, until all I can see is soft thick brown hair and the curve of his ear. His hands are inhumanly strong, but oddly tender. His body is cold against mine, but feels strangely hot. Anticipation, perhaps? Triumph? Killing me will certainly torment Buffy, and that does seem to be his current quest in what passes for his life.

His mouth moves over my skin, skimming it, barely touching. I want to grab his head, force him down, make him get on with it, for God's sake. For Buffy's sake. For my own. I can't move. His mouth is touching now, pressing against the skin, and I tense against my will, waiting for the pain of fangs tearing into my flesh.

He's kissing me.

I shudder, trying instinctively to arch away, but I can't move against the strength of his hold. He laughs, very softly, the sound ghosting over my neck, sending a shiver directly down my spine, loosening my knees. Damn him, thrice over, were he not damned already! Why is he doing this? Why the bloody hell doesn't he just feed and get it over with? I don't realize I've said the words aloud until he answers me.

"Now, where would be the fun in that, Giles?"

I freeze, and the fangs clamp into me. It hurts, but not as much as I expected, and my brain unlocks enough to realize that he's not chewing. He's simply biting. And sucking.

It hurts.

Hurts.

My head is swimming, and my knees are shakier than before. I'm held as close to him as two separate bodies can be, but I'm not fighting any more. My arms have moved.

I'm holding him.

The realization that I'm actively participating in my own death kicks my mind into action. Commands pulse to nerve endings and muscles, and my body strives to obey. Unlock the death grip I have on his waist. Stop melting into him. Firm those knees. Concentrate on the pain and repeat, over and over to myself. The Watcher is expendable. The Slayer is not.

He's stopped suckling at me. With his jaws still clamped in the side of my neck, one hand still holding my head in a vice grip against his mouth, his other hand moves, tearing my shirt from me as if it were made of tissue. Finally, his jaws unclench and he slowly, slowly removes his fangs from my flesh.

God, it hurts.

My eyes are watering, and I'm weak again, can't seem to gain my balance. He's holding me up by my hair, bending down along my body, licking at the trail of blood as it seeps from the wound in my neck over my collarbone, along my right breast, over my nipple. He bites again, without warning, striking like a snake, and I moan, unable to contain the sound.

It hurts. And I'm aroused.

Damn him.

Damn us both.

His hands are at my waist, now, both of them, working at my trousers, stripping me, and I can't fight him. I push at his shoulders and I might as well be pushing at a granite wall. The vertigo is growing, the room spinning. Perhaps that was me, for I find myself prone on the sofa, cold in the cool room, colder still as he lowers himself over me. I clench my fists in the cushion, closing my eyes against tears, vaguely surprised that my glasses seem to have disappeared.

He's laughing again, licking at my neck, where the seepage of blood has slowed to a trickle. Solid thighs part my own, and I realize, dimly, from far away, that I'm protesting, not going to this fate silently, although I might as well be mute for all he listens. My own chorus of no, and god, and please, and don't, echoes uselessly in my head.

He bites again, and again, not sinking deeply into me, just enough to mark, enough to draw blood. He laps at it like a cat, making tiny appreciative noises. The nape of my neck, below my left shoulder blade, the small of my back. The top of my thigh, my right buttock. He's taking his time, extracting my forfeit, enjoying the payment I will make for the life of my Slayer.

My litany has changed. Two words, three more. Damn him. Damn us both. His tongue follows his fangs, opening me, and he thrusts into me with no preparation. The pain is back, tearing at me regardless of my attempts to relax, to accept, to not make it so difficult. I may as well be a virgin, it has been so long, and he takes me hard, delighting in the pain if his laughter is anything to go by, and it has always been.

Time slows down, as it does when one wishes it would fly. The pain goes on forever, joined by another sharp jagged slice of it as he bites back into my neck, worrying at the edges of the original wound. Too much early conditioning with my only other male partner, and my body responds, unable to differentiate between extreme pleasure and extreme pain, knowing only that the one using it is knowledgeable and determined to force a response. I am moving with him, now, not against him, and while the passage has eased with blood and force, the pain remains.

His bite is deeper, his sucking stronger, his thrusts near to breaking me, and I'm nearly unconscious with the combination of pain, pleasure, and blood loss. His hand slides from my hip to my penis, and his touch completes what his violence began. My climax triggers his own, and he stops biting long enough to howl as he comes. The sound hurts my head.

He withdraws, with one final lick at the slowly trickling wound at my neck. His hands are petting me, soothing me against my will, but then what of this has not been against my will? I gave him permission to kill me. Not to destroy me and leave me alive. His wandering hands settle on my buttocks, and I whimper, not willing for another go round, utterly unable to stop him. A raspy sensation, and I whimper again as I realize he's cleaning me, licking up the blood and spillings from my arse and thighs.

It doesn't hurt.

I'm unconscious before he stops.

Sunlight coming through the front window wakes me, and I painfully go through my morning routine. The strongbox is locked, letter to Buffy burned to ashes in the litter bin, throw bundled into a bloody ball and thrust deeply into the rubbish disposal outside. None of the wounds is deep enough to require stitches, and bandages will keep any stains from showing to the outside. A long, hot shower to loosen abused muscles, a dose of castor oil, and a strong cup of tea strengthen the facade of normalcy. I'm ready to face the day, as ready as I can be to face a day I hadn't expected to see. Ready to face my Slayer.

She takes me by surprise by storming into the room as I make ready to leave.

"Buffy?" Her eyes are red rimmed. The bruises from the previous day have faded to nothing, but the bruises behind her eyes are raw. "What's happened? What's wrong?"

"What's **wrong**?" I have seldom heard her actually shriek. I wince, and when I open my eyes again, she has thrust two sheets of paper before me. They're rattling. Her hands are shaking. I reach out gingerly to steady them, then freeze in horrified disbelief.

Two still life drawings, beautifully rendered, exquisite in detail. Vintage Angelus work. The subject is intimately familiar. My own body, in motion and at rest.

Being taken, marked, broken. Agony and pleasure in every twisting line, every bunched muscle, even to the sheen of blood and sweat on my skin. It was rape, but could look like love, in another universe, in another lifetime, with another person.

The second is peaceful, my face in repose against the sofa cushion, the line of my shoulder and out-flung arm, the loose drape of the throw covering me. A thin trickle of blood making a stark line from the wound at my neck down onto the sofa below me.

Gradually, the world comes back into focus, and I can hear her screaming at me, her voice thick with betrayal and pain. He is so very good at inflicting pain. A true master. Damn him. Damn us both. Her words strike at me.

"Why can you have what I can't ever have again?" She's crying, and I'm shaking. I take the pictures from her. I will burn them. Later.

"You and Angel were lovers. This isn't love, Buffy. This is Angelus. This is hatred. This is exactly what he wants."

She bites her lip, staring up at me. "What?" she finally asks, her voice breaking.

"To hurt you." The truth does, indeed, hurt.

Her eyes close, and her shoulders slump. Hesitantly, I reach out to her, unsure of my reception, unsure of my actions. Blindly, she reaches out to me and wraps her arms around my waist, hugging me tightly. Her grip presses against the wounds he gave me, and I tighten my throat against the pain. My arms come around her, and I hold her as tightly as she is holding me. We will get one another through this. He will not destroy us. He will not destroy _her_.

The Watcher is expendable. The Slayer is not.

 

_His Place in the World, Lindsey's perspective_

He had them in the palm of his hand. Then that undead do-gooder pain in the ass stepped in, slung her glasses at her like a weapon, and proved to the jury beyond the shadow of a doubt that regardless of what _their_ eyes told them about _her_ eyes, this was not a woman to take lightly. It was a damned miracle and one hell of a tap dance on his part to wring a hung jury out of what could so easily have been another Angel-provoked fiasco.

By the time they got back to the Firm, he still hadn't stopped shaking. Only iron will and sheer terror kept it from showing. When she took his hand and caressed it, his will nearly broke. He couldn't do a thing to stop his eyes from widening. He knew for certain Holland saw the sweat on his upper lip. There wasn't any way he could completely suppress the shiver that went over his spine when she left. It took every ounce of his hard-won composure to look out the window and shake unobtrusively like a leaf.

Then Holland had to go and start talking about choices. Figuring out how the world worked, and what sort of cog he, Lindsey McDonald, was in the big machine. Like he had no idea what the world was like. Bullshit. He'd had his nose rubbed in the dirt that made up the world before he was big enough to know anything, and by the time he'd learned to kick before he was kicked, he'd learned one whole hell of a lot about just how the world worked.

'Til Holland mentioned Brewster's next job.

Everything he thought he'd known, about the world, about himself, tilted and fell over sideways.

Kids.

She was going to kill kids. He was going to make up a damned good horrible background for her to explain why she would. Then he was going to convince a jury that he was right, and she would take his hand again, and take his clothes off with her blind eyes, and make him itch right through to whatever shreds were left of his soul.

He didn't remember leaving the boardroom. Barely was conscious of the drive across town, past the high rise buildings, through to the West Side, all the way to the ocean. He stared at the water as the sun went down, until his own eyes felt seared blind. He tried very hard to think, but his brain, for the first time in his life, betrayed him. Instead of cutting to the heart of the problem and finding the best solution for his own ends, it kept circling back, over and over. Her hand, as it caught the glasses. The smile on her face as she touched him. The death that was her enlightenment.

The kids.

He didn't plan to go to his nemesis, but he had nowhere else to go. It couldn't happen. And if it didn't happen, he was dead. So he had to get out, and he had to make sure it didn't happen. The only man who could help him make sure that both those things happened was the one man on earth who had the least reason to help him.

He'd beg, if he had to. Wouldn't be the first time, although it had been a damned long time. But it would be the highest stakes he'd ever begged for. His life.

And the kids'.

The woman, Chase, and the man, Wesley, had stared at him as if he was some kind of cartoon villain, dropped in from another dimension. They weren't important, and he ignored them. The vampire, though ... Angel was a different story.

Angel closed the door behind his friends, and Lindsey stood very still, listening to the near-silent tread behind him. The vampire asked if Lindsey was afraid that Angel would kill him. He answered, quite truthfully, that he wasn't. Angel wouldn't hurt him. Not yet. Not now.

Knowing the enemy was a solid strategy. Angel's soul came in handy, instead of being the nuisance it usually was.

For such a cold body, it felt like a furnace behind him when Angel stopped and scented him. He heard the air rush in through Angel's nose, felt more than heard the soft rumble of his voice as he spoke of Lindsey's terror. God, yes, of course he was terrified. He was putting his life, his soul on the line here. He tried to tell Angel, tried to pry the words out of himself, spilled more about his wretched childhood to the uncaring vampire than he had to anyone since he'd turned his back on the squalor he'd grown up in and left it behind himself. Permanently.

Angel feigned boredom.

What had Angel ever known of true privation? A rich man's son, then a demon who could take whatever he wanted. Even after he'd been cursed with a soul, he hadn't ever known what it was like to be powerless. To be a child, watching the father he adored try to put a smile on when he was getting spat on. He'd never lost everything, had nothing, wanted anything. He'd never put out his five year old arms and wrapped them around his one year old sister, who should've been burning up with fever, and instead was cold as a stone. He'd rocked her in his arms all night long, until his mother had come in early the next morning and cried out, a soft little scream that stuck in her throat. His daddy'd had to pry his arms away from his little sister. That was the first time he'd ever seen a dead person.

He'd seen a lot of them since. None of them children. If there was any justice in the world ... no, there wasn't, and he knew that. But there was Angel.

By the time he finished talking, he knew that Angel would help him. Angel didn't want her to kill any kids, either.

They made plans, ignoring Chase, roping in Wesley. His heart was in his throat, and something Angel'd said to him about panic teased at the edge of his mind. Did he really want to walk away?

Well, no.

But he couldn't stay, either.

So he'd stick with betrayal, and hope like hell Angel was good enough to get them both out in one piece.

He was preternaturally aware driving away from the run-down building where the vigilante lived. He watched each shadow like a hawk, took a circuitous way home, triple checked security when he did lock himself in. He didn't sleep much. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw his sister's body, only in the pictures painted behind his eyelids, her eyes were white, and she was smiling. There was blood on her lips, and her face was faintly blue. The images of the past combined with the fear of the future kept him awake all night.

The next day at work, he did his damnedest to look his normal laid-back self. He smiled at the guards, tossing them a careless salute. He tried not to jump out of his skin when Lilah startled him in the records basement, even managing to make a joke about not letting the amoebas know the brass could read, or they'd never get anyone to do their research for them. The echo of her footsteps had barely died away before he was moving again.

His fingers were slick with sweat when he hid his identity card for Angel to use. The noise it made as it slapped against the metal sounded like a cannon shot. When he went in to distract the guard watching the security cameras, he was acting the role of his life.

The shaman started to wail about the presence of the vampire and he nearly yelped himself, but he held it in. Flicked the camera off. Covered Angel's trail. Slipped out, easy as could be, almost ready to draw a clear breath when he got the all-clear over his cell phone. Then hell yawned open before his feet.

Mind readers.

He hadn't been exaggerating when he'd told Angel that while other firms had random drug sweeps, Wolfram and Hart had random mind reading sweeps. And his luck was complete shit that one should come down when he had betrayal on his mind and the only thing he could think about was escape. The next several moments were the longest in his life up to that point.

When Holland stalked up to him, and the guard moved behind him, Lindsey swallowed and tried very hard not to think at all. He was dead, and he knew it. Then the unthinkable happened, and Lee started babbling with an inane sense of pride about being head-hunted, and the next thing he knew, there was an explosion next to his left ear and he flinched away instinctively. Not fast enough. A splash of hot blood painted his cheek and jaw, soaking into his collar. For an instant, he thought it was his, thought for certain it had been a diversion and he was the one being targeted, knew without a doubt that the bullet had taken off the back of his head and he was dead.

Except he wasn't.

His knees were shaking, but he was still upright, staring down in numb shock as guards dragged Lee's body out the door. He turned to leave, almost missing the soft-voiced, "Lindsey. Stay a minute," from behind him.

Then he _knew_ it had been a diversion.

The next few minutes were even slower than the eons he'd spent in the line-up. Lilah patted him gently on the shoulder as she left, support or goodbye, he didn't know, and figured she didn't either.

He'd been certain sure Holland was going to kill him. He almost dredged up a smile, almost managed banter, forced his exhausted, confused, and fucking terrified mind around the concept that Holland wasn't going to kill him. Holland was giving him time to think. Holland was going to let him walk out the door.

It took a bit to solidify his muscles, but he managed it. He walked out that door, alright, expecting every second, every footstep, to hear another explosion, this one ending it all.

The door closed behind him with a sound like a sigh.

This time, he drove directly to Angel's offices after a short stop in the men's room to clean the blood off his face. The vampire's eyes went right through him, burning into him, and he managed to take a light tone, although he had no idea where it came from. "Sorry I'm late. I hope I didn't worry you."

"We just thought you were dead," Chase answered him perkily, which seemed perfectly suitable, in a bizarre sort of way.

Not yet, but soon, he thought but didn't say. Then one of them, maybe himself, he was so catawampus by that point he didn't know, pointed out an address. They had no time. Angel headed off to fight Brewer for the children, and he found himself doing the driving, as Wesley and Chase went off in Angel's car to find the children's caretaker. It was a fast, furious, tense drive. The car was nearly silent, and Lindsey concentrated wholly on not crashing into anyone or anything on the way. They were almost there when Angel finally said something. It wasn't what he expected to hear.

"I smell fresh blood." Lindsey jumped, but didn't look away from his intense focus on the street in front of them. "And brains. Not yours, you're still walking."

He grunted, a noncommittal sound, and hoped Angel would let it drop. Then a cold touch against the side of his jaw made him jump. "Jesus! What the hell're you doin'?" As always when he was afraid, his accent thickened, and equally the norm, he hated it. He glanced over and saw Angel delicately licking at a dark smear on the tip of his finger.

"Missed a spot when you were washing up."

Lindsey's stomach nearly revolted. Not from the pensive look as Angel was sucking Lee's blood off his finger, but because of the sharp flash of remembrance of how very near his own death had been. "Yeah. Well. One of the guys got fired today. Literally. I just got too close."

He didn't hear Angel move, but suddenly that not-heat not-cold too-close presence crowded him again, and Angel's breath was soft in his ear. "How close, Lindsey?"

He shuddered. He wanted to turn his head, wanted to look at Angel's face, wanted to spit in it. Wanted to crawl across the seat and disappear into him, wanted to feel safe again as he hadn't felt since he was little. A tiny voice was laughing hysterically someplace deep inside his brain, but he didn't listen. He didn't look.

"We're here." He jerked the car to a stop and nearly fell bolting out of the car, getting away from that closeness. Denying that safety that was just an illusion. Went forward to do the only thing he knew for damned sure had to be done, save the kids from Brewer. The rest could wait until he could think again. Until he could hear something besides his own blood rushing in his ears.

Angel went first, and Lindsey let him, not as if he could stop him. He had no scruples about letting the vampire lead the attack, just as he had no scruples about hitting a woman, especially a woman who was a homicidal freak, and most especially when that woman hit him first. Until the previous day he'd've been pretty certain he had no scruples about anything, but something about murdering children had caught on the one moral he hadn't purged. Once the woman in question started beating the holy crap out of him, he _really_ had no scruples about doing his best to kill her.

Thankfully, Angel was much better at it than he was, since Lindsey found himself tossed around like Raggedy Andy, and about as much help in the fight. At one point he realized he was flying through the air upside down, and he crashed into the wall only to have a couple hundred pounds of randomly flailing vampire tossed down on top of him. He took a huge gulp of air, trying to drag breath into badly bruised lungs, and realized several things at once.

His face was buried under Angel's chin. Angel smelled good.

Angel's arms were holding him against the wall, strictly by accident, and in a futile attempt to keep his weight off Lindsey. Those arms were rock solid. He didn't particularly mind the weight.

He had the gut-deep feeling he had thrown everything away for nothing. She was going to win. They were going to die. The kids were going to die. He was harder than he'd ever been. He wanted her to be dead. He wanted Angel to go on holding him.

Happily for what little was left of his sanity, Angel rebounded back into the attack and took his body away from Lindsey's before they both discovered things about him he'd just as soon neither knew. Then the vampire found a way to kill Brewer with her own sharpened white cane. Lindsey pulled himself over to the children and did something he hadn't done since he was ten.

He reached out and gathered them up in an embrace. He put his body between theirs and the threat before them. They held onto him and he held back. He was muttering something, "It's alright, you're alright," his tongue slick with his own blood, his head ringing, his arms quivering.

Then Angel gathered them all up and shooed them out to the car. When the children were safely in the back seat, he headed shakily for the driver's seat. A strong hand wrapped around his biceps and brought him to a halt, nearly pulling him off his feet at the same time. He looked up, blearily.

"What?" he tried to ask. The word didn't make it out of his throat. A shadow blocked out the moon, a big body moved faster than anything that large had a right to, and he was held again, up against the car. He closed his eyes as Angel kissed him, tongue flicking out to lick the blood from his lips. He started to shake even harder. Guessed he hadn't been quite fast enough to hide it. Didn't know whether to laugh, cry or throw up. Didn't have the chance to do anything but breathe through his nose and stare, wide-eyed, as Angel backed away and stared down at him.

"I'll drive," was all the vampire said. Then he opened the back door, shoved Lindsey in with the kids, and they took off. The children moved closer to him, moths to the flame, and held onto him tightly all the way to their mentor's safe house.

They didn't let go of him until their mentor called out, then they flew away like startled birds. He watched them go, then slipped away himself. As he slid into his car he looked back.

Angel was watching him.

In the little bit of light casting shadows across the vampire's face, Lindsey saw the tip of his tongue come out and lick at the full bottom lip. He didn't know how he knew, but he knew that Angel was tasting him. His blood. His mouth.

He was hard all during the short, fast drive back to Angel Investigations. He downloaded a few select files with machine-like efficiency onto a zip disk then stashed it in a stamped padded envelope and addressed it to the post office box he rented under an assumed name in Calabasas and shuffled it in with the out-going mail. Then he gathered the original disks up and, mind racing with possibilities, headed back to the Firm.

Thoughts were chasing themselves in his head. If he'd had the brain God gave a goat he'd get the hell out of town and mail the disks back instead of heading bare-naked back into the lion's den. But he couldn't leave. He'd known Holland for fourteen years. He really _hadn't_ wanted to betray him, had hated lying to him.

Hadn't had a choice.

He had to talk to Holland. He didn't have the faintest idea what the hell he was going to say. Had even less idea what he was going to hear. There were other things to consider, now. The fallout from his actions in helping save the kids, in going over to the enemy for the rescue operation. Whether there ever was any such thing as 'getting out' from an organization like Wolfram and Hart. Whether he'd ever actually be safe if he did.

Just what Angel had meant when he'd kissed him.

Shaking the last thought off, Lindsey sat in the car and called on every lesson he'd ever learned in a lifetime of putting up a good front. By the time he stood in the doorway of Holland's office, it was as solid as he could make it.

The boxes took him aback.

Holland shifted, his head going up much as if he scented Lindsey on the air before anything was said. Lindsey swallowed, moistened his throat, and spoke his mentor's name.

The following conversation was yet another surreal note in an utterly unreal week. He wasn't killed on the spot. He wasn't threatened, or rounded up and given to the demons as a snack, fresh people-kibble. He wasn't even tossed out on his ass.

He was offered a promotion.

Was that what bucking the trend got a guy? It didn't make any sense.

Holland told him again to think about his place in the world, to look deep into himself and make a decision about where he belonged. Then Holland walked out the door and left it open behind him. If Lindsey stayed it would be his choice, his acknowledgement that his place was with Wolfram and Hart. Where the power was.

Lindsey leaned against the desk, staring at the lighted hallway behind it. Part of him was sure there was a guard waiting to blow the top of his skull off if he actually did try to leave. Much more of him knew there wasn't. Holland meant it. One way or another, it was up to him. Mind chasing itself again, he walked slowly to the double doors. He gently closed the right door, then just as gently closed the left one.

He remained inside the office.

He'd had too many places taken away from him. Been vulnerable and helpless and shat on too many times. He didn't know where he was going from there, but it wasn't back out in the cold.

Not that it wasn't cold enough inside. He walked back over to the desk and ran his hands along the rounded edge. The black marble was cold, as cold as he was feeling in the pit of his stomach. Moving slowly to sit behind the desk, he removed the receiver from the 'phone and put it silently down on the desktop. Then he swiveled in the comfortable black leather chair and looked out over the nightscape of LA.

His town. If he had the balls to take it. He had a place in it, he knew. He wasn't a hundred percent sure what that place was. There were some question marks.

Just before dawn one of those question marks, more urgent than most, urged him back across town. He parked in the alley behind the building and came in the back way, ducking down the stairway before Chase could look up from the computer and spot him.

"You came back." Angel's voice came to him out of the semi-darkness of the inner room, and he paused at the base of the stairs.

"Yeah." He wanted to say something, but he didn't know what. As he always did when he was unsure of himself, he kept his mouth shut and watched. Even with his eyes wide open and glued on the vampire, he missed the move. Next thing he knew, Angel had him pinned against the wall. The position made him think of a bug stuck on a board, and didn't do much for the aches and bruises he'd picked up fighting Brewer. "Ow," he tried experimentally.

Angel kissed him again. Black dots were swimming in front of his eyes when he was finally allowed to drag in a breath. Dimly he heard a question, it sounded like 'why?' but he couldn't tell. Didn't care. The erection he'd been fighting through near death and battle and confrontation all fucking night had caught up with him, and he wasn't hearing anything at all but the demand to do something about it.

So he did.

Wriggling around until he got a hand free, he grabbed Angel by the back of the head and pulled him close. This time it was Lindsey doing the kissing. The pressure of their mouths grinding together reopened the cut on his lip, and the rasp of Angel's tongue licking at the seeping blood made him moan. Angel caught the sound and swallowed it, too.

It was quiet in the room. Quiet and dark. He'd not have known it was daylight, in the little nest the vampire had made for himself. There was an intimacy in the dark, in the quiet, the only sounds his own gasping breath, the rustle of cloth as Angel stripped him, as he stripped Angel in turn.

The last person he'd fucked had been an actress, a nobody, no threat and no risk. Angel was both, the enemy and the embodiment of betrayal. Lindsey touched him, knowing nothing but that he had to, his hands tracing cold skin like satin over marble, outlining tensed muscles, the sweep of Angel's back, the curve of his ass, the length of his throat. Angel did the same, hands hard but not hurting, urging Lindsey's legs apart, winding around Lindsey's waist, one hand up into his hair, one hand working at his groin.

Angel's hands didn't shake.

Lindsey's did.

The first time Angel made him come right there, shoved up against the wall, shuddering and convulsing in arms that held him solidly as stone. He buried his face in Angel's neck and screamed silently, or as silently as he could, biting at the soft skin, tonguing it and wondering at the lack of sweat. His world had narrowed to the hand holding his hip and the hand between his shoulder blades and the neck under his mouth and the chest that didn't move against his. By the time he got his breath back, they were in Angel's bed and Angel was in him.

He was on his belly, Angel curled around behind him, those strong arms banded around his chest now, his face buried in the bedspread. His entire body was on fire except for his ass, and Angel felt like a different kind of fire there, a cold fire, incredible cold opening him up. Owning him.

Ephemeral.

No one owned him.

Lindsey bucked back against Angel, and the vampire growled, a warning or a sign of pleasure, he couldn't tell. Then he was on his knees, slamming back almost as hard as Angel was slamming forward, and the ownership went both ways. He was taking as much as taken, growling as fiercely as Angel did, grunting and shaking, all his weight thrown forward onto his straightened arms with their locked elbows, his head hanging down, hair in his eyes and blood dripping off his chin. His second orgasm hit him unexpectedly, and he howled, the sound stifled by Angel's fingers suddenly in his mouth.

Angel stiffened and whipped hard against him, and Lindsey bit down on Angel's hand. He was licking it and sucking at the fingers unconsciously, and Angel moved them in and out of his mouth, picking up a shadow of the rhythm their bodies had made. Then Angel was slipping out of him, twisting him around on the bed with one abrupt, inhumanly strong movement. Lindsey found himself cradled underneath the vampire, staring up into yellow eyes, a ridged forehead, and a snarling smile showing sharpened fangs.

He lay completely still, barely breathing. Oddly enough, he wasn't afraid. Angel, or Angelus, or whoever the hell it was holding him, laughed softly.

"It ain't perfect bliss, but I'll take what I can get." The unholy face dove at him, and a single fang raked across his lower lip, widening the cut, then sucking the wounded flesh between sharp teeth, tongue probing and washing it.

Lindsey bucked again, startled by how erotic the pain was. Then the strong sucking eased into a deep kiss, and he opened his mouth to give Angel full access. By the time the kiss ended, Angel was back in human face.

He didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed.

Angel stared down at him. Through him. It was as bad as the mind readers. "Why?" he asked again.

"I had to know," Lindsey answered honestly, although he couldn't tell Angel just what it was he had to know. He wasn't quite sure himself. The vampire stared at him awhile longer, then nodded, probably seeing more than Lindsey wanted him to see. Angel usually did. Damn him.

"Did you make a choice?" The arms around him tightened fractionally.

"Yes." He had. Before Angel could take it any further, Lindsey hooked an arm around Angel's neck and drew himself up to kiss him again. Angel allowed himself to be distracted.

Perhaps he didn't want to know what that choice had been, either.

Five hours later, Lindsey let himself into his new office and walked slowly over to the executive washroom at the side. He looked around as he walked, noting that nothing had been disturbed from that morning. It was waiting for him, if he was going to take it. Turning on the cold water, cupping some to splash on his face, he looked up to meet his own eyes in the mirror.

On the surface, as usual, they showed nothing. In the depths, where the shadows had always been, he saw his place in the world. Not on the right side, or the wrong side. On the winning side. Patting his skin dry, he straightened his tie, walked over to his desk, and put the telephone back on the hook.

 

_A Slight Change of Plan, the gang’s all here_

Finding the Oracles slaughtered had been unnerving, even for him. Being a vampire with a soul, an abomination to his own kind, engaged in a quixotic quest for redemption, he'd seen some doozies. Talking with the Spirit of the female Oracle had pretty well topped the list.

Angel knew what he had to do to save his friends, his surrogate family. He tracked his prey to its lair, interrupted a Ritual in progress, and proceeded to play Obi-Wan Kenobi with the Beast in the role of Darth Maul. Somewhere behind him as he kicked and slashed, ducked and parried, a wind kicked up. He was vaguely aware of Lindsey McDonald's voice snarling Latin, and screaming at the goblins to "say it!", when he kicked the Beast into the middle of the Acolytes and left Lindsey to raise hell all on his own.

He was disappointed, but he had no doubts the lawyer could do it.

Flinging himself out of the way of the scythe the Beast swung like a baseball bat, Angel crashed into a group of humans dragging a big wooden box by chains. The humans went over like bowling pins and he grabbed the chains, swinging them up and over to catch the scythe on its downward swing and divert it into the side of the box. He had a brief impression of movement, the echo of a feral howl, and something dove from the box, landing on one of the fallen humans. He didn't have time to check, although the howl sounded oddly familiar.

The haft of the scythe caught him across the top of his right shoulder, numbing his arm down to his fingertips, and the pain combined with an adrenaline rush brought his demon to the fore. Angelus screamed out, left hand curving around the top of the blade where it attached to the handle, and with a vicious sideways yank he buried the tip of the curving blade dead center in the Beast's chest. The metal slid through bone and flesh like they were water, and the body cavity flowered open. The stench nearly knocked him over, and maggots boiled out of the eviscerated torso. The shock jolted him back into human form, and he tumbled over sideways to avoid the mass of the now-dead Beast as its corpse toppled forward.

Panting from exertion, Angel shook his head to clear it, clenching and relaxing his right hand, trying to regain use as soon as possible. Braced for a further fight, he rolled to his feet and crouched, ready for an attack from any quarter. Eyes gold-tinged, nostrils flared, mouth slightly open, he rocked on the balls of his feet and growled out warning.

No attack came.

The humans in the room were either dead, clawing at the door to get out, or unconscious. A smell he recognized caught his attention and he pivoted, looking for the source. Terror. Lindsey's terror, to be specific. A sound like a scream trapped behind clenched teeth accompanied the scent. Scanning the trail of corpses, he saw a slight, fair-skinned female vampire land on Lindsey, bearing him to the ground as the mortal was reaching out for the Scroll.

Ah, good. Two birds, one stake.

Launching himself forward, Angel triggered the sheath along his left forearm and threw himself at the female. In one fluid move, he staked the vampire from behind, dusting her with a spare inch between the sharpened end of the stake and Lindsey's breastbone, and scooped up the Scroll with his right hand, thankful he had enough strength left to grip it. As the female disintegrated he felt a tearing sensation in his own chest, and Angelus shook inside him, nearly breaking Angel's iron control.

"Darla!" he screamed, unable to hold it back. The loss of his sire, twice, by his own hand, scorched him, and he found himself curled over the remains of her dust, scattered over Lindsey's startled face. For an instant, he howled, a short, uncontrollable burst of grief, then he pulled himself off Lindsey and ran shakily for the door. An older man got in his way, and he threw the unfortunate human halfway across the room in his urgency to escape.

He had the Scroll.

No one need know the price he had paid to get it.

Except, perhaps, Lindsey. Who knew what he'd seen in Angel's eyes?

Ignoring the thought, he made his way to the hospital. He had to get the Scroll to Wesley. Had to heal Cordy. Had to figure out what to do next. Had to forget Darla.

Again.

 

Lindsey held the torn remains of his jacket against the wound along his collarbone, trying to staunch the blood flow, thankful Darla hadn't taken him down at just the right angle to rip his throat out. At least some of his fabled luck was still intact. Not that he'd had much since Angel had shown up on the scene.

He was gonna kill that son of a bitch. He didn't know how, or when. But that was the plan. He was going to find a way to permanently kill that undead do-gooding son of a bitch. He resolutely ignored the fact that the last time he'd taken that particular vow he'd ended up sleeping with the undead do-gooding son of a bitch instead.

Staring across the room to where Holland was shakily getting up with the help of two surviving clerks, he made a rapid reassessment of the state of his luck. Perhaps he'd've been better off if she _had_ been able to kill him. After this latest interference by Angel, death would be a bonus compared to what the senior partners could do to him.

Taking a deep breath, a little light headed from blood loss and feeling gritty from the Darla-dust scattered all over him, he pushed himself to his feet and went to meet his fate. Holland was looking pretty pale himself.

More than a little pissed off, too.

"I'm sorry, Holland," he got out before his mentor could begin to castigate him. It wasn't his fault, necessarily. Although he'd gotten a weird feeling as they'd left the Firm, and he probably should have said something at the time. But he hadn't known it was Angel. And he surely hadn't known the crusader would crash the party and fuck up the Raising.

Had he?

Putting that thought away, to take out and examine at a less dangerous time, he held out a hand to help steady Holland. The older man glared at him.

"My office, nine a.m." Holland ignored the hand and turned, with some difficulty, to walk away. Lindsey knew better than to offer again. "Go get yourself patched up," Holland threw over his shoulder. "You're going to need your strength."

Lindsey swallowed dryly. That wasn't encouraging. Although he hadn't been killed immediately, which _was_ encouraging. A delicate pat to his unmangled shoulder by Lilah, and he nodded shortly. Wrong move. The world spun, and everything went black.

When the lights came back on again he was in the in-house infirmary at the Firm. Doctor Preston was taping gauze over his shoulder and onto his chest, and he felt pleasantly numb. An ache in the back of his right hand drew his eye, and he saw the nurse remove a canula, attached to a tube from a now-empty bag of blood.

"How many pints?" he asked, mildly annoyed at the weakness in his voice.

"Three units," the doctor answered, no surprise anywhere to be seen on him. Then again, triage after a demon sortie wasn't an unusual occurrence at Wolfram and Hart.

"How many casualties?" Not that he cared, particularly, but one of the clerks Darla had eaten had been assigned to him, and the man hadn't been as stone stupid as most of the underlings he got stuck with. Now he had to break in a new one.

If he wasn't too busy being broken, himself, of course. The thought distracted him, and he muttered a token, "Hm," when the doctor gave him the stats. Only five down, not bad for a Ritual as badly botched as this one had been. He went to rise, and the doctor pressed him back down again.

"You're not going anywhere. Overnight stay, so we can keep an eye on you."

Unspoken, but understood by everyone in the room, was the rider "so you can't run." Lindsey sighed. An understandable precaution, given his previous behavior in the Brewer case. But it didn't help the fact that he hated hospital beds. He'd be in no shape to face whatever Holland and the senior partners were going to throw at him in the morning if he got no sleep all night. Briefly, he considered asking for a sleeping pill, then decided against it. After all, there was no way on God's green earth he was going to walk out of the Firm a second time. If he was going to live through the next twenty four hours, he had to have a plan.

He had all night to think of one.

It was a very long night, or so he thought until it was over.

Morning came too damned early.

 

Night passed too quickly. He'd thanked Gunn sincerely, and sent the young man home with his men and women to get some rest. Cordelia was coherent again, exhausted and distraught but no longer locked in her own mental hell. Wesley was recovering nicely, bouncing back with a resilience that surprised Angel. He left them in hospital, admonishing them to listen to their doctors and get some rest, then trailed home through the tunnels as dawn was breaking over the city.

It had been a hell of a night, in a series of hellish nights. As he collapsed onto his bed and stared up at the ceiling, he finally allowed himself to remember the details of the fight. The scythe, the cyclone wind, Lindsey's chanting, the dead humans sacrificed to Wolfram and Hart's schemes, the maggots pouring from the belly of the Beast.

Darla.

Slaying his sire ... again. Feeling the beginning of the bond, wrenched apart, stillborn by his own hand. The shock on Lindsey's face. The pain contorting his own. The silken feel of the dust of his progenitor coating his hand, his face, settling into the creases of his clothing. The heat of Lindsey's body burning into his own. The smell of his terror. The scent of his blood.

Dimly, he could feel Angelus raging. If the demon escaped, truly escaped, there would be Hell on Earth for those who had done this, had brought her forth only to cause him to kill her again.

Twice damned.

He rolled over onto his side, eyes staring blindly, lost in sense-memory. Ireland, Poland, Romania, death and life and joy and no regret in any of it, until it was over. Doomed to live in memory for as long as he remained, doomed to repeat if ever he escaped that memory.

Doomed to love the people he could never have, should never want.

Thrice damned.

Settling into his memories, he gathered the darkness around him and let himself sink. It was better to remember the past than to think of the future. His future was the present, fighting to redeem the unredeemable, save the lost.

Always damned.

 

Lindsey sat in a comfortable leather chair at the end of a long table in a conference room he'd never seen before. He never wanted to see it again, either. He was the only one in the room.

The walls moved.

More precisely, they writhed. Barely seen at the edge of his field of vision, never directly, they bled, too. It was unnerving. He'd seen a lot of things, participated in quite a few of them, and he'd washed blood from his hands up to his elbows. But he'd never been the center of the vast malevolence he served. It made him feel powerless.

Something he'd vowed never to be.

It also made him feel like a loser. Something else he'd vowed never to be. The thought stiffened his spine, and kick-started his brain. There'd been the outline of a plan teasing at his mind all night, and it was starting to gel. If he could just keep the sheer gut-liquefying terror suppressed long enough to finalize it, he just might have figured a way out of this mess.

Then the walls started to talk.

The sound reverberated inside his head, seeming to surround him, coming at him from all sides at once. His skin crawled and his stomach turned over. His brain felt like it was on fire. His fists clenched and he arched in the chair, holding on to the bare essentials of his composure with everything he had in him. He wouldn't scream. He wouldn't cry. He sure as hell wouldn't wet his pants, no matter how much he felt like he had to.

The cacophony finally muted from the anguished screams of anger and pain to a single trumpeting call, singeing his nerve endings. There were no words, but he understood every emotion plainly. He was a failure. A disappointment. He'd shown promise, but he'd not fulfilled that promise. He'd obtained a shadow, and that shadow had overturned Prophesy. They required a sacrifice.

He would be it. Pain so sublime it would be bliss before he melted like slag under the onslaught. An object lesson of the fruits of failure.

The plan came together with a near audible snap in his mind.

"Bliss!" he yelled. The sounds in his head stilled. The walls froze.

As the pressure began to build again, he clutched at his skull with both hands, physically trying to retain enough mental ability to make them understand. "I can turn him! Angel is our -- my -- nemesis. Angelus would be our strength!"

The walls moved again, and he read a question in the sibilance swelling around him. He licked lips so dry they were cracking, and struggled to make sense.

"Angel can be destroyed by reclaiming Angelus. Angelus can be reclaimed by providing Angel with perfect bliss." The pressure subsided just enough for him to take a deep breath, and when he continued, his voice was calmer. More certain. This would work. It had to work. It was his only chance. "His file shows that he's drawn to lost causes. He saved Faith, the rogue slayer." He winced at the small surge of anger all around him, and hurried on. "He thinks he can save me, thinks he can redeem me. I can play into that. Seduce him." He took another deep breath, and consciously allowed himself to remember sex with Angel, knowing they were reading his mind. "There's an attraction there. I can work with that. Make him fall in love with me. Give him that perfect moment, and destroy his soul."

An image came into his mind then, of Angelus tearing him into bloody pieces.

"I'm willing to risk it." What was the alternative, after all? "Angelus would be an asset to Wolfram and Hart, as much of an asset as Angel is a liability."

The noise swept around him again, high pitched chittering piercing his brain, and this time he couldn't keep the cry of pain back behind his teeth. He curled up into a fetal ball in the chair, knees up to his chest, arms wrapped protectively around his head. Fighting not to whimper, he focused completely on Angel, on revenge, on sex, on anything but the urge to run far and fast.

He wouldn't get ten feet, and he knew it.

An eternity and a near-migraine later, swaying on his feet from the sleepless night, aftermath of the battle and close encounter with the senior partners, Lindsey found himself in his office. He had no memory of getting there. Slumping into his chair, he stared dazedly at his daytimer. The pages rustled with an invisible breeze, and he gulped. The book flipped open to Friday, and a word appeared on the page.

"Bliss."

So much for killing. He'd painted himself into a corner, so there was going to have to be a slight change in the plan. There were no other options, not if he wanted to keep breathing. He didn't know how much time they'd give him, but he had his orders. Swiveling around in his chair, he stared out over the city and wondered how in the hell he was going to pull it off.

 

Angel heard the quaver in Wesley's voice and wholeheartedly agreed. Life. His reward for fighting the good fight, redemption, was to be life. As a human. No more torment. No more eternity.

Death had never sounded so good. Real death, final death, after real life, human life. He smiled, faintly, too overwhelmed to say much. Popping the lid on the plastic container of blood, he absently raised it to his mouth and took a swallow.

Yuck.

Cow was bad enough. Chilled cow was truly disgusting.

Catching his grimace before it could escape, knowing Cordy wouldn't understand, he forced himself to swallow and quirked a reassuring half-smile at his friends. Cordy beamed back, and Wesley smiled more sedately, but with a gleam in his eye that gave Angel the uncomfortable feeling Wes knew precisely what he was thinking. That thought brought the other side of his mouth up, and he gave them both a small but real smile before heading off into the kitchen to put Cordelia's microwave to good use.

The rest of the week was quiet. Angel thought of thanking the Powers that Be for it, but every time he thought of Them he remembered the Oracles. So he tried not to think too much, tried not to wonder what would happen now. Tried not to dwell either on the darkness behind him or the uncertainty ahead, and took the rare luxury of enjoying the present. On Friday afternoon, he got at least a partial answer to his mental questions.

Cordy had a vision.

As he eased the trembling girl down into a chair, he couldn't help quietly rejoicing that the visionary purgatory the Beast had delivered her into hadn't burned out whatever part of her mind it was that received the visions. He also sent up a quick thanks to whomever might be listening that the Powers that Be hadn't turned their backs to him when he'd failed to protect the Oracles. Wesley brought over Excedrin migraine tablets and a notepad, scribbling clues down as Cordy grumbled them out.

Three miles away he and Wes cornered the pack of Mipok demons, fought and slew them, and got covered from hair to shoe soles in sticky lime green goo. Again. Life was back to as even a keel as it ever got in L.A. Stumbling wearily into the office a little after midnight, they tossed a quarter for who got first shower, and Angel won. For once, he was glad of the toss. Vampiric noses were very sensitive, and the lime goo stank. Badly. It was sheer bliss to scrub the crap off. Wrapping a towel around his hips, he shooed Wesley into the shower stall with a courtly bow. Wes broke land speed records getting under the water.

Hm. It would appear human noses found it as appalling as vampiric noses did.

Angel grinned and stepped out of the towel, shrugging into his robe. It hadn't been a long battle, but it had drained him, and he wasn't completely over his fight with the Beast earlier in the week. Placing a beaker of blood in the microwave, he pushed the button and leaned against the counter, closing his eyes.

A change in the air brought his head up and he opened them again to see Lindsey standing in front of him.

The lawyer didn't look much better than Angel felt. He could see the outline of a bulky bandage along the man's left shoulder, running down over his collarbone. He was pale, green eyes red-rimmed, slumped with exhaustion. Even his hair looked tired.

Before either could say a word, Wesley wandered out from the shower, a towel around his waist and another over his head, rubbing his hair vigorously. Angel watched as Lindsey started, stared back and forth between the wet, naked Wesley and the robed, obviously retired for the evening vampire. For an instant, Angel thought he saw what looked like betrayal in those wide, startled eyes, then a shutter fell down over them, leaving them blank, completely expressionless.

"I'm sorry."

Wesley stopped dead at the sound of Lindsey's voice, pulling the towel from his head and staring at the lawyer. He looked rather like a surprised hedgehog poking his head out of a bush. His mouth opened but nothing came out. Angel could relate to the feeling.

"This is ... a bad time. I'll just go." Lindsey turned to leave. He made it two steps toward the stairs before Angel could shake off his weird paralysis and move. He caught Lindsey by the arm, ignoring the hiss of pain as Lindsey's injuries were jarred by the movement.

"No. Why did you come?"

Behind them in the bedroom, Angel could hear Wesley moving around, the rustle of cloth as he dressed, the thump of shoes and slap of wet toweling on the floor. All the noises were incidental to the sound of Lindsey breathing. His heart beating. He sounded trapped.

Funny thing. Angel could relate to that, too.

Hesitant footfalls paused behind them.

"Would you like me to stay?" Wesley's question was only the first layer. Do you need back-up? Should I break out the sword or the crossbow or just hand you a cudgel to beat him to death? Should I let you have him or may I kill him myself? Such support, all unspoken. Angel grinned. It wasn't a pleasant expression.

"No. Thanks, Wes. Go home." I can handle it. Him. I want to handle him.

There was too much truth in that thought for the smile to remain. It slipped, leaving him staring as wide-eyed at Lindsey as Lindsey was staring wide-eyed at him.

Clearing his throat, Lindsey finally forced some words out, just when the silence was becoming oppressive. "You okay?" The southern accent was pronounced, and Angel could tell by the slight flush in Lindsey's pale cheeks that he heard it and was discomfited by it.

"Why are you here?" The heat was seductive, and Angel shoved Lindsey away from him before he could give into temptation.

Lindsey shrugged gingerly, settling the suit jacket back in place over his shoulders. His slight grimace of pain was quickly hidden. He didn't answer, choosing instead to wander further into the room. He picked up the short sword Wes had used that night against the Mipoks, sniffing curiously at the layer of goo along the edge. His nose wrinkled.

God help me, Angel thought. He's cute. He's amoral, vicious as a cornered wildcat, too damned smart for his own good and stupid as a plank when it comes to seeing where his plans were leading him. He's running down the road to hell of his own accord, refusing to be turned from his path, and taking everyone and everything he can along with him for the ride. And I want him.

Anger burst through the confusion in his thoughts, and he found himself leaning over Lindsey, pushing him onto the sofa, knocking the sword from his hand to the carpet, growling down into his face.

"What do you **want**, Lindsey? You said you wanted out, then you **chose** to go back. You took over the bloody spell to raise my Sire, then forced me to kill her again to save your miserable life. You want to win! Well, fine! Go back! Leave! What the hell are you **doing** here?"

"I want you."

The whisper cut across his tirade, robbing him of momentum, taking his breath. He stared down into those unblinking eyes, trying to read the lies there, seeing nothing but shadows.

And truth.

Lindsey was speaking again, and Angel forced himself out of those shadows long enough to hear what the man had to say. Not that he would believe it. Not that he could.

"Wolfram and Hart is the only thing I've known since I was nineteen years old. They've been my home for fifteen years. My mentor's there, the only person who has ever shown an interest in me, ever put himself out for me. Ever believed in me. I don't agree with everything they do, and sometimes they scare the hell out of me, but I didn't want to leave."

Angel nodded, noting both the past tense in the last sentence and the fact that he'd finally heard Lindsey admit he was scared of something. It was progress, of a sort. "And now?" he prompted.

Lindsey bit his lip and turned his head away slightly, staring off into the distance over Angel's shoulder. He shifted against the cushions, and Angel instinctively moved with him, pressing closer while at the same time moving his weight further down Lindsey's body. This took the pressure off the wounded shoulder. It also ground their pelvises together. Angel growled under his breath and shook off the distraction.

"The Raising was my last chance," Lindsey admitted, still not looking at him. "As you know, it was a fiasco. The Beast was killed, the Raised was killed, hell, half the senior clerks at the Firm got eaten." He finally looked back at Angel, and this time it was easy to read the expression in his eyes. Trepidation. Strong trepidation. "I don't know what new plans they have for me, but I have a feeling my days are numbered. I need a bolt hole for when the time comes to run, and I'm willing to pay for it."

He moved his groin against Angel's, the message unmistakable. Angel snarled at him. "I knew lawyers were whores, I just never knew one who'd be so eager to admit it."

Lindsey surged underneath him, trying to escape, growling back, "Fuck you!" Angel pinned him easily, one hand clamping into the bandages over his collar bone. He could feel the stitches, the hot fevered skin beneath the gauze. Lindsey gasped and fell back against the sofa cushion, not fighting any further.

"If it's not your body you're offering, then what is it?" Angel asked conversationally, ignoring his own growing arousal.

"Information," Lindsey hissed at him. "I want to turn a losing hand into a winning one."

"Is that all this is to you?" Angel couldn't help asking. "A game, to win or lose?"

There was a long silence, and he stared down into Lindsey's face. Expressions chased themselves across the normally stoic features, alarm, uncertainty, resolve. Desire.

"No," he finally admitted. Electricity was practically visible, crackling between them.

"What about this?" Angel prompted him again, pressing his firming erection against Lindsey's. The heat coming from Lindsey's body ratcheted up several degrees, and he could smell the want in the air. Coming from both of them.

"That's between us," Lindsey said very softly, more an exhalation than a whisper.

Angel's eyes flashed yellow as he read the message, loud and clear. He leaned in closer, the heady mix of blood and arousal coming from Lindsey drawing him in. He opened his mouth, set to make him explain, clarify exactly what he meant, when Lindsey hooked an arm around his neck and drew him down into a kiss.

Thought evaporated. Tension that had been building since he'd followed the lawyers to the crypt for the Ritual the night before exploded between them. Open mouthed kisses sucked bruises on pale flesh, needy hands stripped wool and linen and cotton from Lindsey's body, heedless of the pain inflicted, as he drowned in the need washing over him. Lindsey wasn't protesting. On the contrary, his own hands were pulling ruthlessly at Angel's robe, stripping him as efficiently as he was being stripped.

The hands were too distracting, and as soon as shirt and jacket were tossed on the floor Angel pulled Lindsey's wrists behind his waist and looped his thin leather belt around them. Then he pulled Lindsey flat on his back on the sofa and ran his palms from the rounded buttocks to the back of Lindsey's knees. Crouching over him, Angel clamped Lindsey's bent legs against the sides of his ribs, holding them in place with his elbows, leaving his hands free.

Lindsey was whimpering and squirming beneath him, thrusting up against him, his erection slapping against his belly. Angel leaned down and sucked him, once, hard, and the whimper broke into a sharp yelp. Then Angel reared back, spread Lindsey's buttocks with his hands, and thrust home.

The yelp escalated to a scream.

Momentum built, and Angel slammed into Lindsey, rocking them both, jolting the sofa. It was hard and faster than he would have liked, but neither one of them could stop themselves. A tiny stain began to spread through the bandage at Lindsey's collar bone, and the fresh blood from the torn stitches roused Angel to fever pitch.

Loosening his grip on Lindsey's knees, he let the man's legs slip around his waist and leaned in further, his hands going behind Lindsey's back to pull his wrists further down, throwing his shoulders into stark relief. The small stain grew rapidly, and Angel bent over, ripped the bandage off with his teeth, and fastened his mouth over the newly opened wound.

Lindsey screamed again, pain mingled with pleasure, and bucked harder against him. Between their bellies he felt Lindsey's cock spit, and felt his own caught in a vise grip in response to the orgasm. He growled, knowing he was shifting form, unable to stop himself. His fangs bit deeply into the wound his Sire had made as his climax ripped through him, and the circle was complete -- fluid streaming from him, fluid streaming into him, life given and received.

The struggles against him weakened rapidly until Lindsey lay unmoving beneath him. Calling on every reserve of strength he had, Angel reined in the demon, and cautiously extracted his fangs from Lindsey's flesh.

He didn't want to leave. Not the blood, not the ass, not the arms now draped limply over his back, belt dangling uselessly from one wrist. Angelus was shrieking, wanting more. Angel was shaken, too close to losing everything. He forced himself to withdraw from Lindsey's body, slowly and carefully.

Peering intently down at the unconscious man, Angel was relieved to see a faint pulse at his throat. He climbed gingerly off the sofa, lifted Lindsey with care and brought him over to his bed. The warmth was still there, faded but intact. Angel took a deep breath. Slipping Lindsey under the covers, easing the belt from the limp arm and tossing it away, he stared down at the now quietly sleeping man. So fragile, this way. So mortal.

Angel turned away abruptly and headed for the kitchen. When Lindsey woke up he was going to need lots of fluids. Orange juice, water, apple juice, whatever. Angel licked his lips and tasted Lindsey's blood.

So sweet.

He shook his head viciously. Too sweet. Too tempting. Too utterly wrong. Lindsey said he wanted out -- again. He might just mean it this time. But caring for him -- falling in love with him -- would be the second stupidest thing Angel had ever done in his life. He had to make sure it didn't happen.

Again.

 

Lindsey woke late Saturday morning feeling like he'd been plowed by a ten ton freight train. He bit back a groan as he rolled over, careful of the freshly bandaged shoulder that felt like it had been through a meat grinder. His mouth was sore. His ass hurt.

He hadn't felt this content in so long he couldn't remember.

A glass of orange juice appeared in front of his face and he started. "What the hell?"

"Drink it. You need the fluids."

He took the glass from Angel's hand and peered over the rim of it as he drank. The vampire looked haunted.

Good.

"How are you going to swing it?" Angel asked abruptly. Lindsey cocked a brow at him. "The mind readers."

Lindsey grinned. "By the time I get back to the Firm, I'll firmly believe we're makin' love because I'm infiltrating your organization."

"Sex," Angel ground out.

"Huh?" He drained the juice and sat the glass down, licking the last drops from his lips. Angel's eyes followed his every move.

"It's sex. Not love. I don't love you."

Lindsey nodded slowly, then pulled himself out of bed and got dressed in the clothes Angel thrust at him. Not yet, he thought triumphantly, noting how Angel watched him like a hawk the entire time. But soon.

Pausing at the entrance to the tunnels, he looked back over his shoulder at Angel, who was brooding against the wall, watching him leave. There was hunger in the dark eyes.

He smiled. "Later," he said softly. Angel simply nodded. And watched.

Step one. Complete.

 

The next month was strange. Lindsey contacted Angel once a week, and Angel found himself lurking around the Wolfram and Hart offices much more than he probably should. He found himself listening for Lindsey's heartbeat. Shadowing him on the way home.

Watching through the windows as he went to sleep.

Cordy had another vision, and he and Wes had another night of demon hunting. Gunn and his gang kicked up a hornet's nest and he plowed in to help the kids against the vampires. Kate rang him up once and ranted at him. He hung up on her. Wesley ate him out of house and home, and Cordy went shopping.

Lindsey showed up late on a Thursday night and kissed him. He couldn't stay. He'd dropped off a packet of papers, on a client of Wolfram and Hart who was planning to push up the flow of tainted heroin among the street kids, a Pu'tr'ser demon who fed on hallucinations and violence.

Angel killed it. The pipeline was closed before it could even open.

Wesley was cautiously optimistic, seeing the latest activity as an indication that Lindsey meant it when he said he wanted to change. Cordelia summed up her opinion pithily, "When did hell freeze over?" Angel forced himself to be neutral. It was hard, when the only thing he really wanted to do was bury himself in Lindsey again and forget everything. Suspicions, frustration, expectations, disappointment, everything.

The third Saturday night of the month, about eleven, Lindsey knocked on the door from the tunnels. Angel let him in. He barely got his mouth open on a greeting before Lindsey's tongue was filling it.

When they broke apart, not much, but enough for Lindsey to speak, what he said surprised Angel. "Thanks.

"For what?" he managed, distracted by Lindsey's hands on his ass, Lindsey's breath on his throat, Lindsey's warmth in his arms.

"You're the only thing I have left I can depend on," Lindsey told him. Angel had no idea what the man meant by that cryptic remark.

"Are they coming after you?"

"Soon, I have a feeling," Lindsey muttered around a mouthful of Angel's chest through the thin silk shirt he wore. Every nerve in Angel's body sparked at once.

It was unlike any other time they had ever had sex. Time slowed down. Textures, tastes and scents absorbed them, turning their usual frantic rut into a nearly ritualistic dance. Angel was lost in the taste of Lindsey's mouth, the silk slide of Lindsey's hair through his hands. The curve of biceps, the scattering of crisp curls on his chest, the heaviness of his sac, the length of his shin. The fleshy palm of his hand, the hollow at the base of his throat. The sweet strength of his thighs, parted and clenching around him. The strength of the line of his spine, arching below Angel's chest. The nape of his neck. The underside of his wrists. The almost silent moan that escaped when he came.

When it was over, they lay together, wrapped around one another in Angel's bed. He made a move to pull away and Lindsey caught his arms, pulling them back around him. "Stay?"

It was a request with the edge of command behind it. Angel paused, staring at the contrast between his pale, muscled arms and the warmer skin tone of Lindsey's chest. "Why?"

Lindsey stilled. After a long moment, he said softly, "You make me feel safe."

Angel took a deep breath, tightened his arms around Lindsey, and allowed himself to be drawn back into the web being spun around him.

 

[Plan A]

Angel made certain he was gone by the time Lindsey woke up. They were getting too close; there was a tenderness between them that made him wary. His soul was quite literally at stake, and he didn't dare lose himself in what he was beginning to feel. On the other hand, he couldn't bring himself to turn his back on Lindsey. If this was real, then the man he was reluctantly beginning to care for was in imminent danger.

Another month crawled by, two more nights of passion, two more nights of Angel barely holding on to his soul with his nails. Lindsey was surprisingly vulnerable, and unsurprisingly stubborn about refusing to admit it. He needed Angel, and Angel found himself responding to that need. More files were smuggled out, more demons were killed, more innocents were saved. In the back of his mind, as he was slaying the ungodly and washing off the muck afterward, reassuring Wesley and calming Cordelia, or laying quietly with Lindsey listening to that thrumming human heartbeat, he could hear something else. A clock ticking.

Time was running out. For all of them. For everything.

He tried to confront Lindsey about it, but those steady green eyes stared through him. "Not yet," Lindsey said, the Oklahoma burr underlying his words stronger than usual. "Not just yet." But when Angel tried to pry out of Lindsey just what he was waiting for, the lawyer went cagey on him.

It drove Angel nuts.

Made him nervous. Made him jumpy.

Made him care too much.

Something had to give.

Soon.

 

In a comfortably dark room, carefully shaded to keep out the bright Los Angeles sunshine and lushly appointed in leather and mahogany, three beings sat in silence.

"Lilah Morgan," one finally said.

"Trustworthy, in her way. Useful, to the limits of her abilities," the second agreed.

"And the boy?" The third brought the burning question to the table.

"Is taking too long," the second one announced. There was an air of finality, of judgement passed and read. Silence descended again.

"The abomination?" The third asked the next important question.

"Kill him. Kill them," the first one decided. "All of them." The others nodded.

It was to be war, then. Let it begin, and be done, and be put behind them.

Immediately.

 

Lindsey was nearly home when the attack hit. Two black sedans came out of nowhere, forcing his car off the side of Mulholland Drive into the scrub. He scrabbled for his seatbelt and threw himself out of the car before it tumbled down the side of the mountain. Lying there, stunned, his head ringing, he barely had time to bring his hands up in front of his face before the first one hit. Dimly, he was aware of two more coming from the second Lexus, scurrying across the dirt to join the fight.

Or, more likely, the slaughter.

Clawing at the demon's eyes, one hand digging into its windpipe, Lindsey kicked desperately at the second demon, squirming like a fish on a hook to get away from them. From the road behind them came the sound of tires squealing, then a howl that made his skin crawl. The demon pounding on his stomach was abruptly pulled off him and he dragged in a much-needed gulp of air.

Then he watched in dazed horror as the demon's head was ripped completely off its shoulders, the head tossed one way, the body the other as his rescuer lit into the remaining demons.

Angel, in full Angelus mode, went through the Tasker demons as if they were school girls, not the most feared Enforcer demons in Wolfram and Hart's employ. The second demon's face was pulverized; the third had his throat ripped out; the fourth's spine was snapped like a toothpick. It all happened so fast Lindsey hadn't even moved by the time the fourth corpse was dropped into the dirt.

"Angel?" he asked shakily. Angelus turned to him. His face shifted, contorting between Angel's human features and Angelus' demon visage. There was a massive struggle going on, and Lindsey wasn't at all sure he wanted to be around to see who won. One strangled word Angel coughed out before Angelus wrested control back settled the matter.

"Run!"

He did.

He made it to one of the Tasker demons' sedans and nearly set it on its side turning it around. By the time he was back in normal LA traffic, he was driving at a sedate speed, blending in with the SUVs and beemers swarming around him. He didn't consciously make the decision to return to the Firm, but he'd survived this long by following his instincts, and he didn't doubt them now.

This attack could have been the final push from the Firm to nudge Angel over the edge into Angelus, force him to protect Lindsey, force-bloom a deeper connection between them. If it hadn't been love that had launched Angel into a rumpus to save his ass, then he didn't know what it had been. The near-ascendancy of Angelus had to be a good sign.

Didn't it?

A decade and a half as a rising star at Wolfram and Hart had taught him many things, including a hell of a poker face, a truly black sense of humor, and an unparalleled instinct for survival. The last made him move very carefully as he entered the firm. He went in the executive entrance, timing it so that he followed another associate in and didn't have to use his card. He knew as well as he knew his own name that if they really wanted him dead, he had very little time to find out what the hell was going on and get out. Even if he did escape, he didn't have much hope of staying alive for long. He hung on hard to the thought that this was another ploy, that Wolfram and Hart was still behind him, that Holland would let him play out his hand. That he would win.

That particular delusion came crashing down around him a few minutes later. Standing, or more aptly lurking, in the hall outside his office, he heard Lilah's voice, and Holland's answering. He crept up against the hall and pressed his ear to the door, concentrating hard.

"- a promotion, my dear. With a six figure salary, and ungodly benefits."

"I thought this was Lindsey's office," Lilah countered, a hint of archness in her voice. Lindsey winced, then shuddered when he heard the reply.

"Lindsey's ... retired. Are you interested?"

He didn't wait to hear any more. He didn't need the confirmation. His last chance was gone.

Less than six minutes passed from the time he'd breached the outer foyer until he was once again in the Lexus and back on the streets. He headed directly for Angel Investigations. The fiction that had begun his last assignment for Wolfram and Hart had just become reality. Slight change in plan, number two.

As he rounded the corner of the street, he pulled up, nearly sending the car over the curb in the process. Hell was breaking loose, and Angel was right in the middle of it. The offices were on fire, Tasker demon corpses were piled in crumpled heaps on the street, and Angel was fighting like a madman in the middle of the chaos.

Sliding from the Lexus, he ran around to the back and pulled razor-edged wood and metal stakes from the trunk. Coming in low, he skewered two Taskers and dodged a third. Slamming his back against Angel's, he screamed, "Where the fuck's Wesley?"

"Don't know," Angel growled, breaking a Tasker over his knee like plywood and sending the pieces back into the mob. Three Taskers were knocked over, one dying as the horn on the forehead of its dead comrade struck it through the throat.

Lindsey ducked a stone pike aimed at his head and feinted up, spearing the oncoming Tasker under the breastbone with his stake then kicking the corpse off into the attackers. "We need help!"

"Really?" Angel asked coolly, slamming a Tasker under the jaw with the butt of his hand, breaking its neck, then using its horn to impale another. "You think?"

As if responding to a cue, a hybrid humvee trundled around the corner, klieg light bringing brilliant clarity to the carnage. Stakes flew through the air, catching the Taskers by surprise, and the battle was joined. Caught between Angel and Lindsey on one side, and Gunn's forces on the other, the Taskers were eventually slaughtered to the last demon. Covered with blood, his own and the dead demons', Lindsey found himself being helped to his feet by Gunn. The youth's expression was priceless.

"You fight pretty good for a skinny white shark," Gunn complimented him. Lindsey scowled up at him and started to make a smart ass reply when he felt more than saw Angel stiffen beside him. Forgetting the challenge, he turned to Angel. The vampire was staring at the doorway to the burning remains of his building.

Two of Gunn's soldiers were bringing out Wesley, suspended, unconscious and bleeding, between them. At first Lindsey thought that was what had caught Angel's attention, until they moved aside and he saw the third gang member.

Carrying Cordelia.

More to the point, Cordelia's body. There was a gaping, bloody hole in her chest. Her eyes were wide open, but they weren't seeing anything. They never would again.

The next hour was a blur. He followed Angel to the hospital, stood outside the door quietly as Cordelia was carried away to the morgue, listened while the doctor pronounced Wesley's injuries grave but not life-threatening. He stood in the background, blood drying on his clothes, waving off doctors who wanted to patch him up, nurses who wanted to clean him up, and watched Angel.

Gunn came up to him, making very little noise. Angel didn't notice.

"How's the man?" he asked quietly, gesturing at Angel.

Lindsey shrugged one shoulder, trying not to move very much. He was stiff and sore, tired and confused. "I don't know." He could feel Gunn watching him.

"Whose side you on?"

"Mine," Lindsey answered honestly. "And his." Perhaps more honesty than he'd like to admit in that one.

"They the same?" Gunn was staring at him, cold suspicion on his face.

"Yeah," Lindsey returned just as coldly. For some reason, the answer seemed to satisfy Gunn.

"Can't go back home," he pointed out.

"Either of us," Lindsey agreed.

"Come back with me," Gunn offered. Lindsey looked up at him. Gunn was looking at Angel.

"Okay," Lindsey said quietly. Shoving himself away from the wall, he approached Angel cautiously. "Angel?"

The vampire didn't move.

"It'll be dawn soon." Still no movement. "They know where you are. They won't stop until we're both dead." Slight movement, a shiver, maybe the beginning of a shrug. Lindsey took a deep breath. "You can't take on all the Firm single-handedly. Especially when you're in shock and grieving. If you do, and they kill you, who'll protect Wesley? Gunn?" He paused. "Me?" he finished very quietly.

Angel's head turned very slowly to look at him. He moved as if he could feel every one of his two hundred and fifty years. "Didn't do much good protecting Cordelia," he said, his voice low and thready.

"D'you honestly think she'd want you to commit suicide? 'Cause that's what it'd be. We'll stop them, Angel. But we have to have a plan."

"C'mon, man." Gunn stepped up beside Lindsey. He spared a thought for the oddness of the alliance before Gunn spoke up again. "We gotta get out of here. Like the shark says. Make a plan. Take 'em down."

Angel rose stiffly, glancing once at Wesley before turning back to Lindsey and Gunn. "Can your men protect him while he's in here?"

"We on it," Gunn told him. Angel nodded. Took a step. Stumbled.

Lindsey was at his side, an arm wrapped around his waist, supporting him before he could fall. Angel and Gunn looked at him with the same expression of vague surprise. He ignored them both.

At the exit door, a certain blonde detective was waiting for them. She started in on Angel before any of them could say a word. Barely half a dozen words were out of her mouth, and Angel had only managed a tired, "Kate," before Lindsey went into action.

"Do you have a warrant, detective?" he rapped out. She stared at him, her mouth still slightly open. He plowed on. "Because if you don't, then get out of his face. My client has had a harrowing experience tonight, and suffered grievous losses, both personal and property. So unless you have material evidence linking him to a crime or a warrant made out for his arrest, then get out of the way." By the time he finished the standard warning, his voice was nearly a bellow. Gunn looked like he was about to laugh. Angel looked shocked. Kate looked stunned. Nobody said a word. "Fine," he snapped. "Move."

She did. So did they. He didn't look back. He knew what expression she'd have when she got over the shock. Pure disgust. He'd just made another enemy for Angel that night. By the time they were settled in Angel's car, Gunn was laughing helplessly. Angel just looked at him.

"Your client?"

Lindsey _refused_ to look at him. "Worked, didn't it?"

"Your client?" Angel repeated.

"Christ on a crutch," Lindsey spat. "Sounds better than my butt buddy, don't it?" Pure Oklahoma farm boy showed through his hard-won veneer. He was extremely stressed and it was showing.

Gunn choked. Angel started to laugh. "What?" Gunn wheezed from the back seat.

"Nothin'," Lindsey roared, accent overtaking him completely. "Everybody just shut the fuck up and ... and ... " Realizing he hadn't the faintest idea where he was going, he took a calming breath asked Gunn in a perfectly normal tone of voice, "Where to?"

Gunn broke up again. Dawn was lighting the sky before they finally made it to shelter.

Thankfully, Lindsey and Angel had a small room in the rabbit warren the homeless kids lived in that afforded them some privacy. It was a good thing, because Lindsey was starting to shake. Two brushes with death, two apocalyptic battles, a grieving vampire, an irate detective, and his entire life blowing up in his face had finally caught up with him.

Angel pulled Lindsey down to sit beside him, curling an arm over his shoulders and holding him protectively. "How much time do we have?"

Lindsey found himself snuggling into Angel's side, something he hadn't done since he was a kid. Thinking that he really should do something about that weakness, when he wasn't so damned tired, he gave into temptation and stayed right where he was. "They threw everything they had at you."

"Us," Angel corrected him.

"Us," he agreed. "They failed. They don't like failure." He had the fleeting thought that Holland wasn't going to like the results of this night's work, then dismissed it. Holland had washed his hands of him. Lindsey couldn't afford to be worried about his ex-mentor. Ever again. "They'll take some time to regroup. Can't afford to be too visible, and your Kate could make them pretty near naked on this one. We've got some breathing room." He was silent for a little while, gradually turning until he was holding Angel as Angel was holding him. "I'm sorry about Cordelia," he offered very quietly.

Angel's arm tightened around him. "Yeah." He didn't say anything for another long moment, then took a deep breath. "One more they'll pay for."

Lindsey nodded. He wouldn't have chosen this fight, because he had the gut feeling that they were on the losing side of the battle, but it hadn't been his choice to make. Now that it was made for him, he was going to do his damnedest to make sure they won. Holding that thought close, he finally allowed himself to relax and fall asleep.

It took a little persuading, but the next night after visiting Wesley and getting an update on his progress, Angel drove them over to Cordelia's apartment. On the way, Lindsey found out about Dennis, Cordy's live-in ghost.

"It might be difficult, when we tell him," Angel said softly, staring straight ahead.

Difficult for all of them, Lindsey thought, most especially you. Opening the door, Angel hesitated on the threshold, and Lindsey looked up at him. "Need an invitation?"

"No," Angel replied, a strained look around his eyes and mouth. It took a second for Lindsey to understand.

"I'm sorry," he muttered. Angel glanced at him.

"Not your fault." Squaring his shoulders, Angel forced himself to step inside. Lindsey watched him carefully as he walked through the apartment, touching things briefly, saying goodbye.

"Would you like me to do this?" he found himself offering. Angel gave him a half-smile, then shook his head.

"Dennis?" Angel asked. There was a stirring in the air. As if the ghost could read Angel's mind, the sound of keening whirled around them. Angel clenched his jaw. Lindsey looked down at his feet. It went on for several moments before the grief-stricken sound died away. "I'm sorry," Angel offered, the grief echoed in his own voice. The breeze touched Angel's face, ruffled his hair, then disappeared.

Looking around the apartment, Lindsey had an idea. "Where's Wesley live?" he asked. Angel looked at him.

"Around the corner from the office," he answered. "Why?"

Lindsey looked around again, pointedly. "Do you think Cordelia would mind?"

Angel looked around as well. He bit his lip. "No. I don't think so."

Suddenly the wind kicked up madly, and Lindsey was spun around, Angel beside him. On the large mirror in the hall, a mist had appeared on the glass, and writing was forming on the surface of the mirror.

_of course i don't mind          he lives in a flea pit _

_this place is rent controlled!           don't you DARE lose it!_

Below the mist, a face appeared. Then a second. One was familiar, the other wasn't.

The boy in the mirror grinned, and leaned forward to kiss Cordelia's cheek. Lindsey saw her lips move. It looked like she said phantom Dennis. He glanced over at Angel's face. The vampire was smiling. His whole face was glowing.

He reached out and laid his hand on Angel's sleeve, and those deep brown eyes stared down at him, a measure of peace in their depths. He smiled back, and was about to ask Angel about the nickname, when the world slid sideways.

His brain pulsed. Somebody was screaming. If he'd ever taken LSD he'd've thought he was having a flashback. The walls melted in psychedelic colors. He tasted blood and tears. The screamer wouldn't shut the hell up. A sidewalk floated in front of his face, then numbers painted on a curb. He saw a condo, vertical blinds clattering at the open windows, blood spattering the walls. His hands were at his temples, fighting to keep the screams on the inside where they belonged, and he was gasping words, but he couldn't hear them.

When the world thudded back into place, he found himself held tightly in Angel's right arm, left hand holding what looked like three aspirin out to him.

"What the hell was that?" he rasped out. Angel handed him the aspirin and he swallowed them dry, not waiting for the glass of water that followed.

"A vision," Angel said simply. "Looks like the Powers that Be have chosen a new messenger."

He stared up at the bemused vampire, his jaw hanging open in stone stupid shock. Angel leaned over and kissed his mouth closed.

"Welcome to the fight."

Lindsey stared up at him and made yet another slight change of plans.

 

_The Thorny Path (the Righteous shall walk)_

Lindsey McDonald had been many things in his life. From the age of eleven on, most of them had been planned. A fiercely competitive student, a highly-focused worker, a brilliant lawyer, a journeyman magick worker. A fighter, and a winner. He'd had enough of being hungry, cold, and broke as a kid.

Never in his life had the title 'Seer' ever been intended to join the list.

But then, a lot of weird things had been happening since Angel had muscled his way into Lindsey's life. The first time the anomalous vampire, a white hat with a soul of all things, had shoved one of Wolfram and Hart's most prestigious clients out the window to become falling flambé, then stepped up into Lindsey's face and tucked his business card back in his suit jacket, Lindsey'd had the feeling it was going to be a long, strange ride.

It got nothing but stranger.

Angel stuck his nose in everything. Fucked up Lindsey's hard work on too many court cases. Irritated Lindsey's clients. Infuriated Lindsey's boss. Nearly cost Lindsey his life, until he came up with a plan to take Angel down. It was his last chance; the vampire had disrupted one too many of Wolfram and Hart's schemes. Lindsey was to infiltrate Angel's organization, play on his weaknesses, seduce him, and coax Angelus out to play, permanently.

So much for plans.

Somewhere along the line the senior partners decided Lindsey'd had enough rope, and it was time to hang him. At the same time, they launched all-out war against Angel and all he held dear. To everyone's surprise, except perhaps the Powers that Be, the side of the Light had won the battle. Not without losses. Cordelia Chase was now a co-resident of the protoplasmic kind in her apartment, sharing ghostly space with Phantom Dennis. Wesley had been laid up in the hospital for almost a month recovering from his wounds. The building that housed Angel Investigations was a condemned shell of blasted-out wood and plaster. Detective Kate Lockley was firmly convinced that Angel and everyone around him was in league with the devil. Gunn and his gang of roaming vampire-hunting homeless kids were now unofficial foot soldiers in the war against the Evil White Folk of Wolfram and Hart, and enjoying it just as much as hunting down vampires.

Lindsey McDonald was in hiding.

As bolt-holes went, it wasn't bad. Oddly enough, with its peach walls and white stucco, the apartment he now shared with Angel and Wesley was more home-like than his high-rent West Side condo had ever been. He'd lost that, and everything in it, when he switched sides. All he'd had when he'd run was the clothes on his back and the impressive store of weaponry he'd salvaged from the trunk of his car. It was enough.

Especially once the visions began.

The first one hit the day he and Angel had gone to tell Dennis that Cordelia was dead. He'd been standing there, watching in bemusement as Cordelia's spirit and the ghost of a dark-haired young man smooched in the mirror, when all hell had broken loose in his head. If he'd been a junkie, he'd've thought he was on a bad acid trip.

The succeeding ones didn't get any better.

Every time it was the same. A big hammer would come out of nowhere, whack him upside the head, and send him into a spiral of images, sounds, and pain. He'd curl up in a fetal ball, yelp like a puppy that'd been kicked, and spill details he couldn't hear to Angel, who'd take notes, pat him compulsively, then feed him extra-strength Excedrin. When he could stand upright again, he'd follow Wesley and Angel out and they'd fight something disgusting, or several disgusting somethings, usually getting covered in various noisome fluids and chunks of demon flesh, then wander back home, shower and fall over to sleep. All the time Angel and Wesley were fighting demons, Lindsey was watching their backs.

Wolfram and Hart didn't forgive, or forget. It was war, of the most intensive, subversive kind. It made him tired, and made him crazy.

The only time he could forget was when Angel turned to him and took his mind away from the world by taking his body over. Unfortunately, they couldn't spend all their time in bed.

If they tried, Wolfram and Hart would just hunt them down there, too.

 

Angel slashed at the Jervut demon, avoiding the stabbing claws and ducking under the razor-sharp tail that tried to decapitate him. From the other side, Wesley aimed the cross-bow, armed with a steel stake bathed in aniseed oil, deadly poison to the Jervut. The bolt struck true, and Angel took advantage of the demon's involuntary hop to swipe at its exposed belly with his sword, gutting it. It took awhile, but the damned thing finally stopped twitching.

Not that he had time to celebrate. A batch of Tasker demons backed up by V'gots swarmed out of the darkness. Lindsey yelled "Angel! Behind you!" and took one out with his own sharpened stake. Tired from the battle with the Jervut and more than a little pissed off at the way Wolfram and Hart's bully boys waited until the end of a battle to ambush them, Angel morphed into full vampire mode and waded into the fray.

Wesley went down under a rush of combined forces, and Lindsey hacked his way through the snarl of bodies to come to his aid. Angel tried to get to them, but too many bodies were in his own way, most of them recently deceased due to his efforts. He growled in pure frustration and bit the hand off one idiot who tried to catch hold of his throat. Spitting it out as quickly as he'd ripped it off, since it tasted like shit, he launched himself into the tangle of demons grouped like a rugby scrum around his friends.

He was getting really, really tired of this.

A rumbling noise behind them announced the arrival of Gunn with back-up, and the Wolfram and Hart gang split off the attack, scurrying back into the shadows. Angel helped Wesley toss one body off the top of him, then turned toward Lindsey. The erstwhile lawyer looked nothing like his old self. He was sitting, slumped in a puddle of demon ichor, metal and wooden stakes clenched in either hand, jeans and sweater dripping in blood and gore. It was on his face, in his hair, coating his arms. One knee was ripped out of his jeans and Angel could see that the skin underneath was abraded. His eyes were huge in a pale, tired, and splattered face.

Angel didn't think he'd ever seen anything sexier.

Sternly telling his body to behave, there'd be plenty of time for that after they all got home and took showers, he waved to Gunn and walked over to Lindsey. Gunn waved back.

"Chicken shit bunch, wasn't they?" the young man called merrily. Angel just grinned and shook his head at him.

"You got 'em on the run," he called back. Gunn gave him a mock salute then rounded up his posse and rumbled back the way they'd come. Angel stopped at Lindsey's side. "Want a hand up?"

"I think my butt's stuck in this crap," Lindsey answered dejectedly.

"At least we're still in one piece," Angel reminded him quietly, raising him to his feet with one strong hand under his arm.

"This time." Lindsey looked around at the carnage. "They're getting too close," he said forcefully. Before Angel could answer him, they heard the sounds of sirens getting closer. "Damnit!"

Angel agreed. Another tactic the Firm had been using -- wreak havoc then leave then call the cops who'd come hassle Angel's group. After the first few arguments with Kate, they'd taken to evacuating an area almost as fast as the Wolfram and Hart demons.

"C'mon, Wesley," Angel called, pulling Lindsey along with him. "Company's coming."

"Right behind you, Angel," Wesley replied, bringing up the rear. They piled into the car and headed off for the apartment, leaving the mess for Kate to clean up.

Just another hot summer night in L.A.

 

The water felt good. Lindsey stood under the hot needles as long as he could stand it, and finally began to relax. Cordy and Dennis were on watch, Wes was asleep, and Angel ...

... stepped into the stall behind him. His hands were cold contrast to the warmth lingering along his skin that the water had left behind. They felt good. He leaned against the solid strength of the body behind him and let his head drop back onto Angel's shoulder. Angel got the hint. A hand reached forward and turned the shower down to a gentle spray, then began to roam over Lindsey's chest and stomach, lingering over the bruises and scrapes. The last remaining aches faded away under the gentle touch.

Lips closed over the side of his neck, nipping gently, and he gave a quiet moan. He'd been leery about sex in the apartment at first, knowing that there were two non-corporeal beings peeking in on them. But neither Cordy nor Dennis had ever made their presence known when he and Angel were together like this and gradually he'd relaxed. He hadn't had much choice. Angel had magic in his hands.

The caresses grew bolder, and the mouth hungrier, and the moans turned into encouraging words. Angel cupped his erection in one hand and teased his chest with the other, and he moved, slick with water, between Angel's hand and Angel's body.

It was the only place he'd ever felt safe.

Too tired to hold back, he was coming before he was ready for it, and the force of it nearly took him to his knees. Angel held him up, kissing and petting him, then leaned him against the tiles. Lindsey grinned into the cooling wall. This was his favorite part. He was relaxed and open, and Angel slid into him like a warm knife through butter. Angel took his time, and Lindsey stood there, hugging the wall, riding the motion behind him, soaking up the coolness of the tile in front of him and the length within him. The strength of the thrusts took him up to his toes with each forward movement, slapping the tip of his cock against the wall. It wasn't long before his body took a renewed interest in the proceedings.

One of the best things about having a dead man for a lover was his stamina. Tired he undoubtedly was, but he could keep it up forever. Lindsey grew hard again in response to the way Angel was using him, the gently building momentum rocking their bodies together, until he felt as if all the blood in his body was pooled in his groin. Angel's hand curled around his hip like a heat-seeking missile and locked onto his erection.

For the second time that night, every nerve in Lindsey's body exploded at once. This time, he took Angel with him. Angel's right hand milked him dry, his left arm curved around Lindsey's waist and up along his sternum, keeping him from smashing into the wall with the force of Angel's thrusts as he came. When they were both empty, Angel pulled slowly from him. Lindsey couldn't keep back the groan as Angel withdrew.

"You okay?" The question was whispered against the back of his neck. He shivered.

"More than," he answered, scarcely able to form the words. Behind him, Angel chuckled.

Lindsey barely had the strength to step from the tub, and Angel wrapped him up in towels and guided him to the bed. He was asleep before his head hit the pillow.

It was early afternoon when he woke. Angel was out like a light next to him. It should have been disturbing to see him lying there, not breathing, but Lindsey was used to it. He propped his head up on his hand and stared down at Angel, eyes tracing the lines of his cheek, his chin, his throat, dwelling on his chest. Creamy, unblemished skin, inviting as satin, chill as marble.

A cleared throat in the doorway took his attention. He looked up and saw Wesley, looking pink.

"Telephone. It's Detective Lockley," he said very quietly. Lindsey nodded.

"Thanks, Wesley, I'll take care of it." More lawyerese. Wes looked relieved and backed out of the doorway. Lindsey sighed and picked up the telephone.

"I suppose you have a slick explanation for this one, too," her voice rang in his ear.

"Hello, Detective," he returned politely.

"Eighth and Figueroa, ring any bells?" Accusation was clear. He ignored it. He'd had a lot of practice.

"Is there a particular reason why you're calling me, or should I just classify this as harassment and get on with it?" he asked, still very politely.

"Dead bodies. Lots of them."

"A murder? Mass murder? What," he paused delicately, "people were killed?"

Her silence was telling. There hadn't been any human bodies in that pile, and no court on Earth was going to admit demon corpses as evidence. "Keep it off the streets," she finally ordered.

"We're not originating any violent actions, Detective." A thought struck him. "Can we meet?"

"Why?" She was suspicious. He didn't blame her.

"We need to talk."

"If this is about a harassment charge, don't waste my time." Her voice was scathing.

"No. This is about ... a common enemy." He waited for her to snap back, but she was listening. He grinned, staring into space, mentally reviewing files. It was time to get the Firm to back off, and the best way he knew to fight fire was _with_ fire. "Two o'clock okay?"

"I'll see you at police headquarters." The decisive click followed by the dial tone told him how excited she was by the prospect.

Hanging the handset up gently, he disentangled himself from Angel, careful not to disturb the vampire. He dressed quietly, in his last unmangled pair of jeans and a clean tee shirt, then walked out into the living room.

"Everything all right?" Wesley asked, bringing two glasses of juice into the room and handing him one. Inquisitive blue eyes stared at him through the round glasses.

"Maybe." Lindsey nodded his thanks for the juice, then headed over to the computer. "You up for a field trip this afternoon?"

Wes looked at him askance. "Where? And why? Does Angel know?"

"To the PD, to give Lockley some ammunition that just might keep the Firm off our asses for awhile, and he's sleeping, er, still unconscious from last night." He sipped the juice and popped a disk in the drive, revving up the printer.

"Hoist them in their own petard?" Wesley picked up the first sheet and glanced over it.

"Little at a time. Just enough to make 'em back off." Lindsey swallowed the last of his juice and licked his lips. "They started the war. Brought it on themselves."

"This increases the stakes."

Lindsey shrugged. "Can't get much higher than they already are."

Wesley nodded agreement.

As the printer was spewing out the second of the files Lindsey planned to turn over to the police, he scrawled a short note. 'Went to head Lockley off at the pass. Back before sundown. L.' He left it propped on the kitchen table. Then he gathered the print-outs and Wesley up and, checking his six in the rearview mirror as often as the road ahead of him, bearded the lion in her den.

 

Detective Kate Lockley knew what kind of reputation she had. She didn't give a tinker's damn. She knew what was out there. She'd seen it. Fought it. Nearly slept with it. It had killed her father.

She was the only one left in her family. She had her job, she had her fight. That was all she had. It was more than enough. She'd thought, once, there could be more. Then the guy she was starting to really fall for turned out to be an undead monster.

So much for romance.

The sleazeball lawyer Angel hung around with came through the door, followed by the tall guy with the black hair who looked like a school teacher. Or an accountant. One more mark against the Caped Crusader -- anybody who kept company with Wolfram and Hart was, by definition, bad news. Although since this one started playing ball with vampires, he'd loosened up. A lot. Gone were the four hundred dollar suits and the silk shirts, the hair gel and the power ties. The lawyer looked almost like a college kid in his faded jeans and baggy shirt, with his hair falling in his face. Until one saw the expression in his eyes.

Then he looked about a thousand years old.

They arrived beside her desk and she stood, challenging him before he could get his mouth open. "Wanna plea bargain, counselor?" she growled.

He grimaced. "More a gift than a bargain, detective."

"I don't need any gifts from the likes of you," she shot back.

"Please," the school teacher broke in. His voice was soft, with a surprisingly pleasant English accent to it. "Can we at least attempt keep this civil?"

She started to call him on it, when she made the mistake of looking at _his_ eyes. Blue, so bright and vivid they looked like the sky over the ocean on a summer afternoon. And so full of pain and hope. He didn't look like a monster.

Of course, neither had Angel.

"You going to vamp out on me, too?" She glanced over at the sunshine streaming through the window. "No, maybe not, you'd be ashes. Unless you're some other kind of demon. Where are you from?" she demanded suddenly.

"Cheltenham," he responded involuntarily. Beside him, the lawyer snorted.

Kate looked over at him. It looked like he was fighting not to smile. She scowled at them both.

"What do you want?"

"Your attention," the Englishman said.

"Why should I help you?" The lawyer moved forward and laid a manila folder on her desk, atop the pile of paperwork already crowding the surface. She tore her eyes away from the puppy dog look on the Englishman's face long enough to glare at the lawyer again. He wasn't smiling now. He looked intent, grim-faced.

"We have some information you may find useful." He gestured at the folder. "We're bringing it to you in good faith."

"I don't believe you know the meaning of the words. What do you expect in return for this ... information?" She looked at the folder like it was a fresh pile of dog turds.

"Nothing, from you."

Smooth, oh yeah, he was smooth. Her mouth curled back in another snarl. "Then why give it to me?"

The lawyer grinned, a sharp, hungry expression. "You'll run with it. It's good."

"We're looking for breathing room," the Englishman put in. The lawyer shot him a glare, but he was as busy looking at Kate as Kate was busy looking at him, and it bounced right off.

She cleared her throat and reached for the folder, pissed off at herself because it was such an effort to stop looking at the English guy. He wasn't the first cute guy she'd seen. And he kept bad company. God only knew what he really was. The first line of print wrenched her attention completely to business.

Dirt. Real dirt. Dates, times, amounts. On one of the biggest scumbags in town. A major client of Wolfram and Hart. She looked from the paper to the lawyer.

"Why are you selling out your own people?" She stared intently at him.

He stared right back at her. "They're not my people any more. I'm no longer with Wolfram and Hart."

"You're with Angel," she pressed him. He smiled, a more open expression than the death's head grin he'd given her earlier.

"Yeah," he said quietly.

"And they're after Angel," she continued to put it together.

"They're after all of us," the Englishman admitted. The lawyer shot him an exasperated glance, but didn't contradict him.

"You want me to go after them for you," she finished up.

"No," the lawyer surprised her. "You'll go after them for yourself. Because you're a cop, and a good one."

"The side benefit will be for us," the Englishman explained, hands moving in the air. Her eyes followed them. They were good hands, nice long fingers, looked like a musician's, or an artist's. She gulped and pulled her attention back to business. "If they're busy defending themselves, they won't have as much time to attack us."

"Everybody wins," the lawyer added. Now _he_ was wearing the puppy dog look. What was it with Angel and his buddies? Did they practice in the mirror, looking like pound puppies?

"Except Wolfram and Hart," she answered. The lawyer nodded.

"That's kinda the point," he agreed.

"Thanks," she said, grudgingly. He smiled winningly at her, his eyes watchful. "I'll look into it." It was a damned feast. Of course she'd look into it. He relaxed a fraction.

"Be seeing you," he said, then turned to walk out. The Englishman started after him.

"Hang on," she called out. Both men stopped. She ignored the lawyer. "What's your name?" she asked the Englishman.

"Wesley Wyndham-Pryce," he answered, clearly surprised.

Wesley. Hell of a name. Sounded like that bratty kid on Star Trek a few years ago. Only this one didn't look like a kid, bratty or any other kind. She swallowed again, irritated at her dry mouth.

"Nice to meet you, Wesley," she found herself saying. She could feel her own eyes widening, matching the startled look on both Wesley and the lawyer's faces. She could also feel her skin heating up. Which perfectly matched the fiery blush sweeping over Wesley's face.

"The pleasure was mine," he mumbled. The damned lawyer looked like he was about to laugh again. She glared at him.

"Later," she snapped, then buried her head in the file, completely certain she'd just made a horse's ass of herself.

"Yes," that quiet English voice agreed.

The words blurred in front of her eyes, and she told herself angrily to get a grip. Wesley was Angel's friend. He hung out with an ex-shark from the shadiest law firm in a town renowned for shysters. He was obviously Bad News. She wondered when he'd come around again. If he'd come around again. What his home phone number was. If she could track him down. What he might say if she did. Why she'd want to.

She abruptly stopped wondering. She didn't want to go there. She didn't.

Weird. Her life was just plain weird.

 

It was two days later before Lindsey came clean about the visit to the PD to Angel, and even then it was only because he had a sneaking suspicion Wesley would spill the beans if he didn't. Lindsey knew what sort of reaction he was going to get, and he wasn't surprised when he got it.

"You did _what_?" Angel stared at Lindsey. Lindsey shrugged.

"Misdirection. Attack from the flank. Hit 'em from behind. Whatever works."

"He gave some files to Detective Lockley to allow her to pursue an investigation against Wolfram and Hart," Wesley repeated for the third time.

"Wesley," Lindsey said patiently, "he got that. He's just stalling until he makes up his mind how to react to it."

Wes rolled his eyes. Angel continued to stare at him. Lindsey's neck started to itch. "Stop looking at me, Cordy, Dennis, it's makin' my skin crawl!" The itch lessened. From the kitchen, there was the distinct sound of dishes clattering together. At least she wasn't actually throwing anything. A whistling sound picked up, soothing, then more cheerful, and the clattering tapered off. Lindsey sighed.

Before they could get further into it, the world imploded again. God, he hated those fucking visions. This was a particularly hairy one, all blood and claws and rent flesh hanging in tattered strings from lifeless limbs. An alley, some trash, lots of violent movement. A dance club, he could see the sign, bright yellow and blue neon. He was aware of words bubbling out of him, but all he could hear were the screams and all he could see was the flashing sign, splattered with blood.

When he came out of it, Angel was kneeling beside him, holding him in the crook of one arm and scribbling on a pad of paper with the other hand. Wes was offering him a glass of water and more Excedrin. Concerned faces were peering at him from the hall mirror. Although Cordelia did have quite a bit of guilty relief in her expression.

He could understand why. Visions sucked.

Knees no longer shaking, head back in one piece, he followed Angel and Wesley over to the weapons chest and they armed themselves. Half an hour later they waded into a nest of carnivorous Kaid demons and bodies started flying. The blood spattered the sign over the shadowed door in the alley, but it wasn't the blood of innocents that he'd seen in the vision. It was the blood of the hunters.

This time, there was no second wave of attackers. Gunn and his gang weren't needed, and happily rolled off to dust non-souled vampires. The three of them went home, showered off, ate a late dinner and got some sleep, all with no interference from Wolfram and Hart.

Detective Lockley was on the job.

The next week was relatively quiet. Two more visions, as if the Powers that Be were determined to get as much use as possible out of their little war band while the getting was good. Lindsey was developing a low-grade headache that only seemed to go away when he and Angel were busy in bed. Not that he didn't appreciate the extra sex. But it would be nice to be able to get a little sleep once in awhile.

Angel, not the most observant of beings, did notice the nightmares. They were kind of hard to miss. He even attempted to talk to Lindsey about them, quite a concession given that talking was not one of his strengths.

"Lin?"

Lindsey looked over at him. They were lying together in bed, mid-morning, attempting to rest after yet another busy night of mass demon-slaughter.

"Hm?"

"You, uhm, okay?"

How to answer that? Fine, Angel, it's normal for me to wiggle and thrash around and whimper until I wake both of us up, even when I'm not in the middle of an orgasm. "Yeah," he finally answered.

There was a pause. Deep brown eyes stared soulfully at him. Lindsey squirmed again, this time for a completely different reason.

"You sure?"

He shrugged. Angel looked uncertain, then looked down and noticed that other parts of Lindsey were taking an interest in the situation. His expression brightened as if to say 'this is something I know how to handle!' and he slid down, mouth homing in on Lindsey's erection, swallowing it in one gulp.

Lindsey gave up.

Angel went down on him with gusto, as if to make up non-verbally for all the deep conversation he didn't do well. If he sucked at pulling details out of his partner, he excelled at sucking everything else out of him. Lindsey locked his hands in Angel's hair, closed his eyes, and pumped a few times before convulsing. Brain as completely drained as the rest of him, he was asleep before Angel finished cleaning him off. There were no more nightmares that day.

 

Wesley stared up at the ceiling and tried to close his ears. It didn't do much good. Lindsey was loud. Angel was efficient. Both were tireless.

It was becoming tiresome.

It would be less irritating if it wasn't so arousing. It might be less arousing if he ever had any intimate contact of his own, other than with his right hand, and that was difficult to do when he had the lingering suspicion that Cordelia was watching ... and laughing. Even the dead people in this household had more active romantic lives than he did.

He snorted quietly. Of _course_ the dead people got more sex than he did. The dead outnumbered the living three to two. And they were all happily paired off. He was used to being alone, and used to being lonely. It bothered him, of course, but he had become resigned to it.

Until he looked into intelligent, hostile blue eyes in a lovely, determined face, and for the first time in too long, actually wanted to get close to someone. The fact that the someone with whom he wished to become close actively hated him and everyone for whom he cared was ... unfortunate, to say the least.

Giving up on sleep just as Lindsey cried out Angel's name and the bed stopped squeaking, Wesley dressed quietly and let himself out of the flat. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, and it wasn't as if he wasn't used to failure when it came to incipient romantic relationships. The worst she could do was tell him no.

Or, perhaps, given the current strained relationship between her and Angel and her obvious contempt for Lindsey, the worst she could do was tell him yes.

Either way, he'd lose, which was after all what he was prepared to accept, so he walked into the police precinct with no hope and a smile on his face. She was at her desk. He walked to the side, stood by the chair, and waited for her to notice him.

When she finally looked up, she scowled, then looked around him. "Where's the shyster?"

Home sleeping the sleep of the utterly satiated, wrapped in Angel's arms, he thought, but kept the details to himself. "He's not here," he offered. "I just ... uhm ... I thought perhaps ... would you like ... erm, that is --" This was just as difficult as he feared it would be.

She stared up at him, her head tilted slightly to one side, studying him as if he was some sort of strange insect pinned to a board. "Did you want something?" she finally asked, when his fumbling attempts at speech strangled themselves in his throat.

"Ice cream?" he squeaked out, then blushed. She cracked a smile, small but real.

"I'm afraid I haven't got any ice cream here," she told him solemnly.

"Would you like to," he choked off and took a deep breath, "go-out-for-some?" He finished in a rush and looked hopefully at her. Her smile widened. "My treat," he added hurriedly.

Her smile turned to a grin. "Sure."

He didn't know whether to whoop with joy or faint, so he did as any proper Englishman would do and simply stood there, slowly turning bright red. She gathered up her purse and stood beside him. He extended his arm, and she looked at him as if trying to decide whether to laugh at him or punch his shoulder. In the end, she did neither, simply hooked her fingers in the crook of his elbow and towed him out the door.

The sun had never been brighter. The chocolate had never been richer. The day had never been more full of color. They didn't exchange more than a half dozen words between them, and he was perfectly content. She didn't appear too unhappy, either.

"May I call you Kate?" he finally asked. She licked around the base of her cone where it was dripping on her fingers, and said, "Sure."

"Thank you for coming out with me," he told her gravely as they crumpled their litter and tossed it in the bin.

"My pleasure," she told him softly, still looking slightly distrustful, if a tad more relaxed. His eyes were fixed on a small smear of pistachio at the corner of her mouth.

"May I?" he asked politely. She looked at him, one eyebrow climbing. He took it as permission and gently dabbed the ice cream away with the clean corner of his serviette. She stood still, staring up at him as he concentrated on his task. Finished, he caught her glance. They stared at one another for a short eternity before he came back to himself.

Blushed.

Cleared his throat.

Offered his arm.

This time, she took his hand.

When he left her office shortly afterward, he gave her his telephone number on a post-it note. She was sitting there, staring at it, as he left.

 

The next attack from Wolfram and Hart was unexpected, vicious, and definitely desperate, coming as it did during daylight hours. The first Angel knew of it was when the door splintered under a heavy shoulder.

Vases, knick knacks, sofa cushions, dishes and pictures flew through the air at the Tasker demons. Several went down under the initial onslaught as Cordelia and Dennis shrieked in anger and threw everything they had at the attackers. The resulting din and the slamming of the doors between the demons and the bedrooms gave Angel, Lindsey and Wesley time enough to wake up and figure out what was happening. As soon as they could grab hold of weapons, the doors flew back open and they joined the fracas.

It was a brief, bloody battle. A Tasker scored Lindsey across the shoulder with its horn, and Angel yanked it away, breaking its neck by the simple expedient of bending its horn back until its spine snapped. Lindsey fought back with a two-headed hand axe, swiping through demon bodies and ducking blows. Wesley tossed Angel a steel pike, and Angel speared Taskers like fish. A vase smashed across a Tasker's face, ceramic shards embedding themselves in its eyes and snout, and the poker flew like an arrow across the room, pinning two Taskers together and killing them both.

When it was over, thanks to Cordelia and Dennis' early warning and prompt action, the body count was eighteen dead Taskers to assorted non-lethal cuts, scrapes and bruises on the home team. It took the rest of the night to clean up the mess.

Leaning wearily against the doorjamb, Lindsey said musingly, "This is a good sign."

Wesley looked at him like he'd lost his mind. "In what way?"

"They're getting desperate, and they're failing." Lindsey actually sounded heartened.

"They're wearing us down, however," Wesley said. Angel nodded.

"We're winning the battles, but it's a long war."

"One battle at a time." Lindsey pushed off from the wall. "I vote for bed."

Angel beat him to the door.

Vaguely he was aware of Wesley's door shutting firmly, and for a moment he felt a little guilty at the fact that he and Lindsey were so obviously getting it off while Wes was stuck alone in his room. Then the guilt was swamped by lust, as usual around Lindsey, and Angel tossed him to the bed, landing on him like a giant cat and skimming him out of his clothes.

Lindsey didn't have any objections.

 

Life settled into a pattern of relative peace for almost a month. Lindsey watched as Wesley made himself scarce more and more often, coming back from afternoon outings with a dreamy look in his eyes and a smile on his face, but as impeccably dressed as when he left. Lockley called twice, asking for Wesley. The second time was illuminating.

"Angel Investigations." Dimly, he heard Cordelia snort, but it was the perkiest he could get. She'd just have to deal with it.

"Wesley, please."

He grinned at the cop's gruff manner. "May I say who's calling?" he asked politely, just to piss her off.

"You know who it is. Just get him," she barked back. He managed not to laugh. Barely.

"Sure, gracious lady," he responded gallantly. Covering the mouthpiece very loosely with one hand, he called out, "Wes! Girlfriend!" The thump as Wes fell off the chair in his haste to get to the living room was gratifying. The growl on the other end of the line was moreso.

"Hey. Lawyer."

He brought his attention back to the caller. "Yes, Detective?" he said sweetly. He could hear her clear her throat.

"Thanks for the information. It's been ... helpful."

"Thanks for acting on it," he answered truthfully. Before she could grumble at him again, he handed the telephone to Wesley, who was bright red and glaring at him. He ducked out of the room before anything more could be said, but he made no attempt to stop eavesdropping.

"Certainly ... that would be lovely ... three o'clock? ... I look forward to it ... goodbye, Kate." There was a decided click. Lindsey leaned against the wall and waited. It didn't take long.

"Did you hear anything interesting?" Wesley asked him, face still hot, voice getting angrier with each word.

"Be careful, Wes," Lindsey told him, sincerity leaking from him on cue. "She could just be using you." Old pain glittered in the narrowed blue eyes staring back at him, and Lindsey relented slightly. "She doesn't trust any of us. Watch yourself." He was serious.

Wesley saw through the teasing to the warning, and nodded shortly. "I'm always careful. I'll be back by sundown."

Lindsey watched him go, thoughtfully. He'd have to ask Angel what he thought. Much as he ragged on the Brit, he liked him, too, and he'd rather the man wasn't hurt. He didn't trust the cop any more than she trusted them.

Rustling in the bedroom distracted him, and he went into the kitchen to nuke some blood for his bedmate. Angel wandered out toward him, yawning and knuckling his eyes. Lindsey grinned. With his hair standing up at right angles, his mouth wide open and his eyes squeezed shut, the two hundred fifty year old vampire looked about ten. It was adorable.

The bell dinged and he pulled the cup out, reaching out and wrapping Angel's hands around it. "Drink up, you'll need your strength."

Angel's eyes popped open, staring at him over the rim even as he gulped half the cupful down. "What's the matter?" he asked when he finished swallowing. "Did you have another vision? Where's Wesley?"

"Off romancing the detective," Lindsey answered the last question first. "No visions. Just in the mood for a little debauchery."

Angel gave him a slow, nasty grin. "When are you not?"

"Good question. But there's somethin' satisfying about fucking your brains out when you're lookin' like little boy lost." Lindsey voice fell and his accent thickened as he moved closer, watching avidly as Angel finished off the last of the blood then taking the cup from his hand. "C'mon, little boy," he whispered enticingly, slipping the cup into the sink behind him. "Come out and play."

The growl Angel gave him was just the right answer to get his spine to tingling. Lindsey wrapped himself around the larger man, burying his hands in that unruly hair and doing his best to dive down Angel's throat. Angel reacted predictably, looping one arm around Lindsey's back and the other behind his knees, lifting him up and carrying him to the couch.

A light wind whistled through the apartment. It sounded like Cordelia, giggling. Another wind joined it, and the giggles muted to murmurs of happy satisfaction. Thank you, Dennis, Lindsey thought while he could still think. Then Angel was parting his thighs and nibbling kisses in the wake of every button he unfastened, and Lindsey quickly lost any ability to form a coherent thought.

By the time Angel had him stripped, Lindsey was writhing like a snake on hot sand. Angel clamped his hands around Lindsey's knees, parting and lifting them, then settled between them, licking, kissing and biting all along his upper thighs, between them down to the swell of his buttocks, then all along the perineum to Lindsey's sac.

He stayed there long enough that Lindsey was crying out and humping against him, his own hands wrapped around his erection. Angel apparently wasn't happy with that, because he caught hold of Lindsey's hands and pulled them away, replacing them with warm lips and a talented tongue.

There were times when the lack of need to draw breath was a real advantage, and giving head was one of them. Lindsey was on the edge of a knife, teetering but not allowed to fall, as Angel took his time with him. His hands were held fast, his hips pinned under Angel's arms as he was teased and teased. Angel licked and sucked, around his balls, up his shaft, playing and poking at his glans with his tongue. It didn't take much to drive Lindsey completely out of what was left of his mind.

He was whimpering uncontrollably by the time Angel let go of his wrists. All he could do was clutch hold of the sofa cushions and hang on for dear life. Angel wrapped one hand around his sac, pushed one hand back to play at his opening, and swallowed him whole, humming the whole time. The whimpers escalated into low moans.

When Angel finally did allow him to come, Lindsey couldn't seem to stop. Angel would suck, Lindsey would shoot some more, Angel would swallow around him, Lindsey would convulse again. By the time he finally collapsed against Angel's hand, he felt like there wasn't a drop of fluid left anywhere in his body.

Angel slithered up against him, shifting his thighs further apart and replacing his fingers with his cock. Lindsey relaxed into the fucking, unable to do a thing to help, since every bone in his body had melted.

Angel had been close when he entered Lindsey, and he wasted no time, thrusting strongly against him, rocking Lindsey against the cushions. Nuzzling into Angel's shoulder, Lindsey rode the motions, floating above everything, content with the world and his place in it. Then Hell hit him between the eyes with no warning whatsoever.

He knew he was lying on his back, with Angel covering him, holding and fucking him, but somehow he was on his stomach at the same time, and Angel wasn't Angel. Angel was Angelus. Angelus was biting him, hurting him, plowing into him, and it hurt, it was wonderful, it was horrible, it couldn't be happening. Lindsey tried to buck him off, not sure who he was or where he was or what was happening, only that it was wrong, and it hurt, and it couldn't be true.

The hands at his hips tightened, and the face in front of his shifted, Angel to Angelus, yellow eyes gleaming, a cruel grin stretching the fanged mouth. The monster face dipped and those fangs dug into him, tearing the flesh at the side of his neck. Blood gushed across his throat, and he screamed. His legs cramped and his hands clenched uselessly on empty air.

Vaguely he was aware of Angel, clutching him, emptying into him, nuzzling his hair and whispering his name. Superimposed over that welcome, normal impression was an uglier one, hard hands bruising him, sharp teeth tearing at him. The room looked wrong, full of books and plants and ancient manuscripts. The light was wrong, muted and humid. His hands looked wrong against the cushions, larger, streaked with blood.

"Lin? Lindsey? What's wrong?"

"God damn you," he choked out, but it wasn't his voice. They weren't his words. Other words followed, Latin, he was pretty sure, but he didn't know what they were. Angel's face washed over Angelus', and Lindsey landed back in his own body with a jarring thump. He stared up into Angel's confused face.

"Christ on a crutch," he wheezed, then wrapped both arms around Angel's neck and hugged him as tightly as he could.

Angel petted him, somewhat hesitantly then more firmly, before asking again, "What's wrong?"

"Vision, I think," he managed to rasp. Angel jolted against him.

"While we were having sex?" He sounded incredulous.

"Yeah. Sucks, huh?" Lindsey gulped in air, and tried to calm himself. "Weirdest damned one so far. It was like some sort of flashback or something, more than precognition. Involved my whole body, not just my head."

Angel drew back very slowly, staring hard down at Lindsey. "What do you mean, flashback?"

"Well, it was you, but it wasn't, and it sure as hell wasn't me," Lindsey tried to explain. That had been clear as mud, he knew, and he tried again. "It was you at first, then it turned into Angelus. And it was somebody, but not me, and you -- Angelus was fucking him, raping him really. Biting him and raping him. I saw the room, it had books and plants and stuff all over the place. Looked like an old-fashioned library."

By the time he finished, Angel was completely still. He was looking at Lindsey, but from the expression in his eyes, he wasn't seeing anything of the here and now. Lindsey swallowed, then carefully cupped Angel's cheek with the palm of his hand. "Angel? What's goin' on?"

The dark brown eyes gradually focused on him, and Lindsey saw as well as felt the withdrawal. Angel didn't say anything as he pulled away and efficiently dressed. Lindsey sat up as well, reaching for his jeans. To his surprise, his head didn't ache as it usually did after a vision, and he didn't have the normal vertigo, but his body felt like he'd been beaten with big sticks by enthusiastic sadists. He watched silently as Angel walked over to the telephone and picked it up. He dialed, and Lindsey listened in.

"Hi, Willow. Is Buffy in? ... she is? When? ... When was the last time you saw him? ... No, that's all right. I'm sure she has her hands full ... you too. Thanks, Willow." He hung up slowly. Lindsey shrugged into his shirt and sat back carefully against the cushions.

"You goin' to tell me what's goin' on now?" As usual when he was stressed, his Southern roots showed through. He scowled at Angel. He didn't like the feel of this one, whatever the hell it was.

Angel paced back and forth across the living room like a cornered bobcat for awhile, until Lindsey got dizzy watching him and put his head back, closing his eyes. The footsteps continued for another few more minutes before they headed toward him. He felt Angel looming over him and cracked one eye.

"Well?"

"How complete is your file on me?" Angel asked. Lindsey looked at him for a long moment, then huffed out a sigh and answered. Angel would tell him in his own way, eventually.

"Relatively complete. Family history, too many servants but those records always are scanty, early kills, known Children, Gypsy curse, century of atonement munchin' on rats in alleys, alliance with the Slayer and her little band of merry helpers." Two and a half centuries condensed into two complex sentences. Lindsey was good with words. It was one of the reasons he'd become a lawyer.

"You know about the curse then." Angel was staring holes in him. Lindsey nodded.

"Which leads me to another question," Lindsey allowed himself to sidetrack into a related area of interest. His interest, anyway. "How come you're not morphing into Angelus now?" He gestured between the two of them. "You know, with ... us."

Angel looked away. "I'm not in love with you," he said coldly. "My soul's not in jeopardy here."

Lindsey swallowed. He'd known it, hell, he didn't believe in love himself, so it shouldn't have made any impact on him to hear Angel confirm it. It shouldn't have hurt. He had no idea why it did.

"What else?" Angel prodded him, dragging him back to the business at hand. Lindsey felt a brief spurt of anger, but it died away. He'd known what he was getting into when he went for it. It was still better than the alternative.

"Okay. Past history. You fell in love, lost your soul, wreaked havoc, got your soul spell-cast back to you, went to hell anyway, came back, played superhero, took off for L.A. to save the world. Did I miss anything?"

Angel sat beside him, suddenly, as if his knees had collapsed. "It's the wreaking havoc part that concerns me at the moment. How much do you know about that?"

Lindsey took a deep breath. Enough pussy-footing around. "You want a play by play? We had a rap sheet a foot long. Death, mental torture, artistic renderings, more mental torture, rape--" Lindsey's tongue froze in his mouth. "The Watcher." It wasn't a question.

"Is in trouble," Angel answered it anyway. "Rupert Giles went missing last night. He'd gone to the Huntington Library to look at some rare manuscripts, then he was supposed to go over to Brentwood to consult with a historian there. He never made it."

The same thought hit both of them at the same time. "The Firm," Lindsey breathed.

"Bait," Angel confirmed.

"Son of a bitch." He could think about the ramifications of his feelings later. Maybe. First things first, and the first thing was to out-think the bastards at Wolfram and Hart. Or there wouldn't _be_ a later.

 

It had been a very good day. The drive down from Sunnydale had been pleasant, once the suicidal drivers on the 405 were taken into account. The Botanical Gardens had been lovely, the tea in the Rose Garden Room was quite decent and the manuscripts he'd needed to study had been all his for several hours.

There had been several fascinating entries that had a direct bearing on the situation Buffy had described regarding Angel, as well as some intriguing scenarios for dealing with the remnants of the Hellmouth. He'd had to tear himself away when it was closing time, thankful he had the next day clear to come back and do further research.

Not that he had a very full schedule, since the high school had burnt to the ground, he was unemployed, the Council had no use for him, and his Slayer was busy with other things.

Giles refused to give in to self pity and took a deep breath of the scented air, enjoying the beauty of San Marino spread out around him. Pulling into the hotel parking garage, he locked the door and went round to the boot to pull out his suitcase. He didn't feel the sting of the dart as it impacted his lower right back. His hand went numb, the keys fell to the concrete floor, and the world went black.

When the lights came up again, he rather wished they hadn't. A harmless-appearing gentleman in a gray pinstriped suit smiled benignly down at him. Giles sensed immediately that he was in the presence of great evil.

The straps binding him at ankle and wrist, his nudity, and the heavy sense of dark magick in the air all around him merely confirmed his initial instinctive reaction. The air fairly reeked power, corruption, and demon-dwelling. Not the friendly type of demon, either, by any stretch of the imagination. He refused to give his kidnapper the satisfaction of seeing him squirm. He opted instead to lay quietly, weigh his options, and wait for the man to speak. The light eyes staring down at him beamed approval.

"Welcome, Mr. Giles. I apologize for your discomfort, but it's necessary."

"To whom?" Giles bit his tongue. Damnedable curiosity.

"It's best not to know too much," the man clucked at him. Giles scowled. "Your part in our little drama is a passive one."

"I'm bait," Giles guessed. "This is a trap." The beam grew into a positive sparkle.

"Very clever," the man applauded him. "Now, lie still, and try to relax. This is going to hurt."

He didn't lie. There was no artistry to the torture, merely brute strength carefully applied to cause the most painful damage without sliding into lethality. The third time the nettle whip began its journey down his legs he gave up any attempt at keeping silent, and screamed, once, the power of it clawing at his throat. He clamped down on the rest of the screams threatening to burst out. His scream appeared to be a signal of some kind. The man stepped from the side of the room over to a marble desk and picked up a telephone.

"Carry on," he said cheerfully as he dialed a number. The Tasker demon doing the beating did so. With gusto. It turned Giles on the table, paying no attention to the unnatural strain on his shoulders and legs from the twisted bindings, and began whipping him again. It started at his shoulders and worked its way down to the soles of his feet. As it was lashing the backs of his knees, he started to scream again. This time, he couldn't stop.

 

Angel was roaming the streets with Gunn, hunting up information sources. Wesley was off with Kate, soft-soaping her into using the LAPD resources to try to find the missing Watcher. Lindsey was at the apartment, scanning through the files, trying to puzzle his way through the latest twist from his former employers. The ringing telephone distracted him.

"Angel Investigations," he started to say, but the sound of screaming in the background halted his greeting. He switched the recorder on. Angel would want to know about this.

"Hello, Lindsey." Holland's warm voice flowed over his ear like honey. Poisoned honey.

"Let me guess," Lindsey answered, mind racing. Too bad this wasn't the movies -- he'd be able to trace the call. "You're havin' a party and you wanted to invite me."

"Of course, son," Holland said agreeably. "You're listening to the guest of honor even as we speak." The screams in the background hit a crescendo, then broke. Lindsey could hear the swish of a whip in the sudden silence. There was a whimper.

"What do you want, Holland?" His voice was hard.

"You know what I want, Lindsey," his ex-mentor responded in a reasonable tone. "You, and Angel."

"In return?" No fucking way. If they agreed, they'd all be dead.

"The Watcher goes home. Think about it, Lindsey."

Before he could say another word, the line disconnected. He quickly closed the line, then punched in Angel's cellular number. It was answered on the first ring.

"Angel."

"They called. They've got him."

"I'll be right there." Another dial tone. He was getting used to this. He punched the button again, then dialed the police department.

"Lockley."

"This is Lindsey. I need Wesley." To her credit, she didn't argue, just handed the telephone to Wesley.

"Wesley here." He sounded harried.

"Hate to interrupt," Lindsey grinned into the 'phone, "but Holland called. The Firm definitely have him. I could hear him screaming in the background."

There was a shocked intake of breath on the other end of the line. "We'll be right there."

We? Lindsey stared at the telephone, once more singing a dial tone at him. Hanging the handset up slowly, he took a deep breath.

He had a suspicion it was going to be a very long night.

 

"Did he find the missing man?"

Kate's voice broke into his distraction. All his mental eye could see was Giles, alone, tied up, being tortured by demons. Maybe even dead by now. "Yes," he said absently.

"Was he okay?"

Wesley turned slowly to face her. "No. He's not okay. He may well be dead if we don't act quickly." She stared up at him, her face a mask. He licked his lips and tried, once more, to explain why he did what he did, with the people he cared for. Why Angel was not merely the lesser of two evils, but a force for good in his own right.

"A good man will die if Angel can't free him. I must help him." She opened her mouth to speak, her hand reaching for her badge. He raised a hand, palm out, and she stilled. "You know very well this is not a normal threat. The police cannot help. One must set a hunter to catch a hunter, and we are blessed that this particular hunter is on our side." He took a deep breath. "Are you on our side, Kate? Will you be on my side?"

She looked at him for a long moment, then stood, grabbing her jacket and slinging it over her shoulder, stuffing her sidearm in her holster. "Get a move on, Wes. Time's wasting."

He smiled at her as she walked past him at a fast pace toward the door. She didn't smile back, but her frown was thoughtful, not mulish. He fell silent as he climbed into the passenger seat. They sped off across town, and he stayed quiet, giving her room to think.

 

It took a little time to put all the pieces together, and Angel was well aware, after listening to the tape, just how little time they had.

"I told 'em I'd think about a trade-"

"No." Angel didn't even want to think about it. Lindsey gave him an old-fashioned look.

"-but not being a total idiot, it was just a stall." Lindsey sent him a hard smile.

He grinned wryly back. "Yeah." He left it at that, but he did brush his fingers through the soft hair at the back of Lindsey's head as he walked by. An indrawn breath from the doorway spun him on his heel. Kate was standing there, Wesley at her side. She looked pole-axed, staring back and forth between himself and Lindsey. Angel glanced down and saw Lindsey glaring back at her. He sighed. They didn't have time for this.

"We don't have time for this," he reiterated the thought aloud. They had a rescue to plan. "Come on up, Gunn." He'd heard the footstep in the corridor outside.

Lindsey sat forward, hands hanging loosely between his knees, looking deceptively relaxed. Wesley ushered Kate the rest of the way in the room, and Gunn stalked through the door, arms akimbo, ready for action. There was a whistling sound in the air, an interrogatory noise wound together with a frustrated whine. Angel nodded.

"I wish you could come along to help, too, Cordy, Dennis, but you can't. You're in charge of holding down the fort here. We need someplace safe to bring him back to."

"Cordy? Dennis?" Kate asked Wesley.

He chewed his lip for a second before saying, under his breath, "Resident ghosts." Her eyes rounded, but she didn't say a word. She learned quickly.

"Okay, Lindsey, what do you have?"

The ex-Wolfram and Hart insider grinned, resembling a particularly hungry wolf. "The sound bounced. I recognized the echo. It's a room I've been in before. Not a nice place."

Before anyone could interrupt and ask where at the Firm _could_ be considered a nice place, Angel placed a pad of paper and a pen in front of Lindsey. "Ingress and egress?"

The planning was on.

The next hour was intense, as ideas, plans and counter-plans flew. At one point, Lindsey and Kate locked horns, and the impasse was only broken when the paper on the table flipped up in the air and snapped between them. They looked at one another in astonishment, and Lindsey muttered, "Sorry, Cordelia."

Kate nearly jumped out of her skin when writing appeared on the mirror above the sofa. "it's okay, born-again boy just get your butt in gear"

"Born-again boy?" she muttered. Wesley smothered a laugh and turned it into a not particularly convincing cough. Angel glared at everyone impartially and they got back to work.

Gunn had been quiet throughout most of the planning session. When they had a rough attack plan blocked out, he leaned forward and put a finger to the lower right corner of the floor plan Lindsey had sketched.

"Right there," he said. Everyone looked at him, except Angel, who stared at the sketch.

"Yeah," he agreed. The one weakness in the perimeter. The vampire-sniffing shaman was still a problem, but Wesley, Gunn and Lindsey could go in first, while Gunn's fighters caused a distraction. Once in, they would take out the shaman and the head of security. Getting in, though, that would be the problem.

"No problem," Kate announced. Angel cocked his head at her. She smiled at Gunn.

"If you can spare some of your people, I'll bring the flashing lights and sirens." She smiled down at the sketch. "That nice big picture window in the front should make a nice big mess with a couple tons of cars crashing through it, don't you think?"

Lindsey grinned. "Destruction of government property, Detective?"

She gave him an innocent look. "Just another high speed chase that got a little out of hand."

"We can do that," Gunn grinned at them both.

"While you're redecorating the lobby," Angel added, "we'll take out C and C."

"I can get us in the door from the parking garage. It'll get sticky from there," Lindsey warned.

"What was that you said, the first time we mounted a rescue operation?" Wesley asked. "The righteous shall walk a thorny path."

"Let's go play in the rose garden," Angel said quietly.

It went down like clockwork.

Wolfram and Hart might have been expecting a full frontal assault, but not as an 'innocent bystander,' not against their front lobby, and not by the police. A hopped up SUV with oversized tires went skidding sideways directly into the plate glass windows along the front of the lobby, jumping the curb and scattering pedestrians like pigeons. Hot on its tail, a beaten-up Gran Torino with a flashing light on the dashboard fishtailed dangerously, then skidded past the SUV, shattering the guard station and sending armed security men rolling like ninepins.

Lockley burst from the car, gun waving, screaming warning. Three Black youths rolled from the truck, shooting wildly, managing miraculously to miss all the people in the lobby and hit every piece of art on the walls, most of them at least twice. Every security guard in the building headed for the foyer.

Except the head of security. He was clunked over the head with a finely wielded shillelagh before he could call for help, and the shaman in the corner was whacked as well, long before he could raise the alarm.

As the teenagers were escaping out the front, with carefully placed covering fire masquerading as warning shots from the police detective, Angel and Wesley came in through the executive entrance. Lindsey had waylaid Lilah in the parking garage and relieved her of her identification card, gently tying her up and stashing her in the back seat of a nearby Lexus. With it, he'd stormed security. Now that the three were together, they headed swiftly for the inner room where Lindsey had heard Giles being tortured.

Angel felt his skin itch as they neared it. "Perimeter spell!" he barked out.

Lindsey said, "I'm on it!" and starting chanting in Aramaic.

Wesley gave him a startled look, then broke out bottles of various colored powders. The itching eased, and Angel shifted swiftly into vampiric form, using his augmented strength to rip the wooden door with the steel core from its hinges.

Tasker, Xeagui and Coril demons boiled out of the room. Wesley yelled, "Blue! Orange!" and flipped open bottle tops, scattering the deadly, to the demons, powders in the air. Angel followed his order, shattering the requisite colors in his own arsenal and hurling them into the air. The results were impressive, if a little nauseating. The Xeagui demons began to melt, skin bursting open and internal organs dissolving almost immediately. The Coril demons literally exploded, which took out some of the Taskers.

Angel took care of the rest. Snarls, growls and howls filled the air as he threw himself into the fight. Beside him, Lindsey's voice rose to a crescendo, Aramaic giving way to archaic Greek, and Wesley counter-chanted in Latin. Angel could almost see the threads of magick in the air, fraying under their combined spell-casting.

They forced their way through the rapidly thinning crowd of demons and took down the last few guards. There were two human guards as well, and Angel stumbled.

Wesley didn't. He brought his crossbow up and took the first one out. A heavy weight plowed into Angel, knocking him out of the way, and Lindsey rolled over him, coming to one knee in front of him. His left arm extended and the Glock in his hand barked twice. The guard fell.

"So long, Phil," Lindsey muttered. Angel glanced at him. "Later," he shrugged.

The room in which they found themselves was horrific. Faces seemed to be trapped in the walls, mouths opened in silent screams, eyes weeping tears of blood. The stench of dark magick was stifling. Lindsey threw himself to his feet and placed his hands out in front of him as if he was pushing against a wall. He began a sing-song chant of archaic Greek, strongly, anger and desperation in his voice, struggle outlined in every tensed muscle in his body. Wesley came and stood behind him, continuing his counter-rhythmic Latin chant. Angel pulled himself to his feet and moved forward.

Giles was strapped to a table, nude, blood running from welts all along his body. For a moment, Angel was afraid they were too late. Then Giles opened his mouth and started chanting the third part of the spell, in Aramaic. His voice was raspy from screaming, but it was steady and calm. Next to the table a man stood, frozen in place, like a fly in amber. His hand, holding a wicked curved blade, was extended toward Giles, but his eyes were locked on Lindsey. His mouth worked slowly, as if he were trying to talk, but no sound escaped the stasis spell that held him trapped.

Angel stepped past the ensorcelled man and grabbed the knife from him, using it to cut away the straps holding Giles down. Then he quickly lifted the Watcher and carried him out, carefully not interrupting his spell-casting. In the corridor, all three men stopped chanting at the same moment, and Lindsey howled something out in Greek. The doors slammed shut, and the casing melted all around the edges, soldering it closed. Lindsey looked over at Angel.

"Run," he gasped out. No one needed to be told twice.

As they were wheeling out of the underground garage, Kate Lockley was arranging for impound of the stolen SUV on her cell phone as she watched her car being towed away. Angel looked over at her as they drove around the corner.

She was smiling.

 

Lindsey handed their rescued Watcher a cup of tea and settled down at the other end of the couch. The man smiled slightly at him and sipped the hot liquid, swallowing with evident relief.

"How's the throat?" Angel asked, coming into the room and dropping down on the edge of the arm of the couch, behind Lindsey's back. Lindsey leaned unobtrusively against him. He was still in a little bit of shock that they'd managed to pull it off. And survived.

"Better, thanks." His accent was a little deeper than Wesley's. "How did Buffy take it?"

Angel's hand closed automatically on the back of Lindsey's neck, working on the knotted muscles there. It was all he could do not to dissolve into a puddle, and he barely heard Angel explain how he'd talked the Slayer into letting them bring Giles home the next evening, and not take her mother's car to drive down to L.A. in the middle of the night. Giles' next question floored him.

"How did you come to fall in love with a wizard, Angel?" His tone was so mild he might have been asking how the weather had been that day.

"Wizard?" Lindsey asked.

"Love?" Angel said, more loudly.

Giles looked at them quietly. Lindsey couldn't have looked at Angel to save his life, even if Angel hadn't been sitting directly behind him. Angel's hand clamped around the back of his neck. He flinched, and the touch was immediately withdrawn. He sighed. Damnit, that hadn't been quite what he'd expected.

"I get visions," he volunteered into the growing silence.

"He's a Seer," Wesley added, settling himself in the armchair with his own cup of tea. Lindsey glanced over at him.

"Not my choice, but the Powers that Be needed a conduit, and I was there." Love? he thought. He doesn't love me.

"How can I love him?" Angel asked. Lindsey winced at that. Giles gave him a considering look. Angel went on, and Lindsey relaxed a fraction. "If I love him, then I'd be in that bliss place, and then I'd lose my soul, and then Angelus would get off on torturing him for the rest of his natural life."

"Ye gods," Wesley interjected. Lindsey couldn't help but agree.

"That's simple enough," Giles said quietly. "You have the keeping of Lindsey's soul."

At that, Lindsey sat bolt upright, nearly jostling Angel off the side of the couch. "What's that s'posed to mean?" Had the Watcher just called him some sort of soulless ... something?

"I've been doing some research. It's one of the reasons I went to the Huntington. There are certain prophecies there, copied as epic poems, of all things, by monks, from the original scrolls. The Powers that Be, as you call them, require both a Warrior and a Seer. You lost your soul when you gave your heart to your Seer, but he shared his soul with you when you redeemed it for him."

The room went quiet as they all thought about what Giles had said. Lindsey finally spoke up. "Huh?" he asked intelligently.

Giles sighed and drank the rest of his rapidly cooling tea. Gently clearing his throat, wincing at the residual soreness, he explained. "You sold your soul to Wolfram and Hart, Lindsey. When you chose to regain it, you went to Angel for help. He helped you redeem your soul. The price for that redemption was his own soul, as he fell in love with you in the process. The Greater Powers are a pragmatic lot. They weren't about to lose their Warrior in the process of gaining a Seer, especially since they'd already lost two Seers."

Angel flinched at that, and Wesley looked away. Lindsey reached down and ran his hand soothingly along Angel's lower leg, up and down from knee to ankle, until the muscles began to relax again.

"How'd you know about that?" he asked Giles.

"It was all ordained," the man replied, astonishing his entire audience. "It was in the scrolls. The first Seer was to be redeemed, and sacrifice his life as payment. The second Seer was to find true happiness, and sacrifice all in the finding. The third Seer was to come from the Dark to the Light, and share all that he was with the Warrior." He placed the cup carefully on the table. "Now, I don't mean to be impolite, but I'm afraid I'm very nearly asleep where I sit."

Wesley jumped up and helped Giles into the back room. Along the way, Lindsey saw him exchange a long look with Angel. There was a tangle of emotion in the exchange, but one thing he was certain he saw.

Forgiveness.

Angel sighed behind him, a habit left over from life, since he didn't actually have to breathe. "You ready for bed?"

"More than," Lindsey replied absently.

He pushed himself up from the couch and followed Angel into the bedroom. Neither said a word as they undressed and climbed into opposite sides of the bed. Lying in the dark, staring up at the ceiling, Lindsey finally couldn't stand it any longer.

"So, was he just talkin' through his hat or was he tellin' the truth, with all that prophecy stuff?" His accent was thick as molasses. He had more invested in the answer to that question than he wanted to admit even to himself.

"Giles is a brilliant man," Angel replied softly.

Lindsey waited for more. When several minutes of silence had passed, he took a deep breath. Thought for a moment. Let it back out without saying a word. Then he turned on his side with his back to Angel, and closed his eyes.

More minutes passed, then Angel stirred. Lindsey felt the bed dip as the heavy body moved behind him. The silence continued for a moment longer, then Angel broke it.

"I can hear your heart beat."

Lindsey kept his mouth shut.

"I can hear the blood washing through your veins."

He swallowed, but he didn't say anything, listening to the hushed voice reverberate through his body. Angel was pressed close against him now, so close every movement of his diaphragm shivered against Lindsey's back.

"I can smell you. Your blood, your scent, your skin, your hair. I can feel you, your warmth, from across the room." Soft lips brushed across his shoulder, and he quivered.

"The last time I fell in love, I went to Hell. I put everyone I cared about through it before I went there myself. You've been there before. You barely escaped. I don't want you to go back."

He raised his hand and laid it over Angel's, twining their fingers together, holding it in a fierce grip. "I'm not goin' anywhere."

"I don't want to turn into Angelus again." The words were nearly silent, whispered against his skin.

"You won't."

"How can you know?"

"It hasn't happened yet," he reasoned. Angel didn't buy it.

"I haven't said I love you."

"I know," Lindsey said very quietly.

"I can't," Angel admitted.

"I know." Needing to stop the flow of words before they cut him even more deeply, Lindsey turned in Angel's arms and kissed him. Then he moved until he was draped over Angel, aligning their bodies until he was cradled in Angel's arms, lying between his legs.

He began to rock, and Angel joined him, moving slowly, as their bodies caught up with their minds. It was a long, slow ride, rubbing against one another until first Lindsey, then Angel, came, shuddering in unison. The only sounds in the room were Lindsey's harsh pants and the slick slide of skin against skin.

Just before he fell asleep, Lindsey wound one arm around Angel's neck and pulled him close. "I know," he whispered in one ear, then kissed the side of Angel's jaw and closed his eyes to finally fall asleep.

 

Kate looked up from her desk to see Wesley making his way toward her. He looked none the worse for his earlier brush with evil. When he'd made it to the side of her desk he did that blushing thing he did that charmed her against her will, and cleared his throat.

"Can you take a moment?" he asked diffidently. She smiled up at him.

"Actually, I was just getting ready to go home." The smile turned mischievous. "Why don't you come with me?"

When he got finished choking, he said yes.

Once in her living room, he took the coffee she offered him and asked, "How much trouble are you in?"

"Not as much as I expected," she admitted frankly, sliding down into a comfortable sprawl on the sofa and gesturing for him to do the same. "Frankly, running cars into buildings in the course of a high speed chase is much more business as usual for the LAPD than the ghost-busting I've been doing. I think the brass are a little relieved I'm acting like a real cop for once."

He laughed a little at that and she grinned, encouraged. "How about you? You look like you came through it okay?"

Carefully placing his still-full coffee cup on the table, he leaned forward and caught her hand in his. "I'm glad this round is over, but I fear the battle is far from won." He tugged gently. She scooted over toward him.

"You think they'll come after you again?" She reached up with her free hand and removed his glasses. His eyes were larger and bluer without them.

"As long as Angel continues to stand in their way, they will."

Enough was enough, she decided. They could talk about strategy and the great war of Good versus Evil some other time. She leaned forward and kissed him, very softly. He sat stock still. Fearing she'd pushed too far, she started to sit back, dislodging his grip on her hand.

He didn't let her withdraw very far. Long fingers curved around her arms and pulled her forward, and she found herself sitting in his lap. It was a nice place to be. His mouth was soft, and his tongue was shy under hers. She made herself at home for awhile, then finally pulled back when little black dots were starting to float around behind her eyelids.

"You in a hurry to go home?" she asked, pausing to pant a little between the words. He looked at her like she was speaking Swahili, except from what she'd learned about him, he probably _could_ speak Swahili. Maybe she'd been too indirect. "Stay with me tonight?" she tried again.

His smile lit up his entire face. "My pleasure," he said gallantly.

"Not yet, but soon," she smiled back.

The short walk to her bedroom was made much longer by all the stops to share kisses and unbutton clothes and kick off shoes and kiss some more. By the time he stopped with his back to the bed and she pushed him down flat on it, her pony tail was history and so was everything but their underwear. She crawled up over him and straddled him. The look on his face when she unhooked her bra and tossed it over her shoulder made her feel like a goddess.

He cupped her breasts and stroked them gently, and she leaned into his touch. Pushing her panties off with her fingertips, wriggling as needed to get them all the way off without interfering with his explorations, she gave a sigh of relief as she settled back over him. The thin cotton of his briefs was no barrier at all. She could feel the hard heat of him rising up against her. He must have enjoyed it too, because his hands left her breasts and traveled around to her hips, pressing her against him.

"Wesley," she whispered. He opened dazed eyes to stare up at her. She leaned down and nibbled along his jaw, distracting him from his death grip on her hips. When he allowed her to move again, she lifted up just far enough to get a grip on his waistband. Then she lowered her head to suck on his Adam's apple at the same time she pushed at his shorts.

He got the message. His own hands left her just long enough to push the elastic past his erection, and he shimmied out of his briefs in a move that would have put seasoned strippers to shame. She slid a little further down his torso and showed her approval, trailing little sucking kisses down the soft fur in the center of his chest, down his stomach, nosing his navel for a second before going on to bigger and better things. His hands in her hair stopped her just as she was getting going on the lollipop between his thighs. She gave him a disappointed look.

"This will be over before we've scarce begun if you keep that up, darling Kate." His voice was more than a little strained, and she took pity on him.

"What do you want?" she asked softly. He smiled, then pulled her up to his eye level.

"Everything," he answered just as quietly, then began to explore her even more thoroughly than she'd mapped him. By the time his hands and mouth had covered her from her face to her knees, she was _more_ than ready.

He nudged her legs apart and gently separated her flesh, licking and tasting her, stoking the fire hotter than ever. Alternating with his hands and his fingers, he brought her to climax, then kept her there, and her mind closed down completely, an unusual occurrence with the lovers she'd had. Usually she found herself running down suspects and puzzling out cases in her head during sex, an irritating side effect of being a workaholic.

That wasn't a problem this time.

Still working her with his hand, he moved over her and covered her, kissing her deeply. She sucked on his tongue, then moaned into his mouth as he entered her.

She broke the kiss to gasp for air, and found herself nose to nose with him. He had a look of absolute concentration on his face, and she came again, lifting her thighs up around him. He gasped, then pushed deeper, and she felt it roll over her, wave after wave of orgasm. He kissed her then, mouth working over hers as his thrusts speeded up, his own climax hitting him. He clamped his arms around her and sucked desperately at her tongue, and she rode the final contractions as she came down.

When it was over, he lay against her, shaking slightly. She ran her hands up and down his sides, dusting butterfly kisses over his face. He smiled sleepily at her.

"Please tell me this isn't just the aftermath of battle," he mumbled. She slapped the top of his head lightly.

"You went into battle. I just trashed the lobby, remember?" She hugged him tighter and dropped a kiss on the soft hair she'd just slapped. "It's not _just_ anything, Wes." She thought about it for a moment. "Well, maybe it's the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

He snuffled against her shoulder. "...love Casablanca ..." His voice trailed off as he fell asleep.

She smiled up at the ceiling. "Yeah," she whispered into the dark. "I kinda figured you would."

 

Willow heard the key turn in the door lock and jumped up from the sofa. Tara looked up from her book, and Buffy came around the kitchen counter. Xander continued to snore lightly.

It was almost ten o'clock, and they'd been waiting for Angel to bring Giles back all evening. Willow gave a happy sigh when the door swung open to reveal their Watcher, supported between Angel and a man she didn't know. Buffy rushed around her and Tara stepped out of the way as they led Giles into the room and lowered him to the couch.

Willow couldn't have moved to save her soul.

Something very weird was going on. The stranger, a guy a head shorter than Angel, about thirty years old and cute in an older guy kind of way, had green eyes. Old green eyes. Very old green eyes that only showed half a soul.

"Willow?" Angel's voice. She turned slowly. Tara was beside her now, holding on to her hand. Tara felt it too. That was good. That grounded her a little.

Until she looked into Angel's dark eyes, and saw the other half of the green-eyed man's soul.

"You okay, Will?" Buffy sounded confused and protective.

"Yeah, kinda," she managed to answer. There was a strange humming in the air. "You hear that?"

"Hear what?" Buffy asked. Willow shook her head.

"It's magick, Buffy," Giles answered her question. Buffy started to pepper him with more questions, about his health, about the bad guys, about a dozen other things, but Willow wasn't listening.

"Blessed be," she greeted him. He gave her an odd look.

"Bright Blessings," he answered tentatively.

"There's ... darkness in ... you." Tara stuttered a little bit, but she stayed bravely beside Willow. Angel came to stand beside Lindsey.

"Leavened by the Light," Willow said softly, reaching out to touch a shining strand of the magickal web binding the two men. Her other hand clenched tightly on Tara's.

The web hummed.

"You share a soul," she said even more quietly. The stranger glanced between her and Angel.

"Are you okay, Willow?" Angel echoed Buffy's question.

"Oh, yeah," she breathed. "This is amazing. Be happy." It sounded like an order. Angel nodded. The stranger just stared at her. "You can, you know," she reassured him. He blinked, and the web faded away.

Too cool. She couldn't wait to get Tara alone so they could figure out just what they'd witnessed. Her gaze met Giles' over the back of the couch. Well, maybe she and Tara and Giles could talk about it. That would be ... neat.

 

Buffy wasn't too sure just what was going on between her ex-boyfriend and the new guy, or between Angel and Willow, at this point. Giles was white around the mouth and all bandaged up, so she didn't press him too hard. He'd just fall asleep on her and that wouldn't help. She glanced over at Xander. Hmph. Guys.

Willow pulled Tara over into the corner and started talking Wicca with her. For a moment, Buffy felt very much alone. Then she told herself sternly to get over it. Will was happy. That was the important thing.

She looked back at the two men who'd brought Giles home. Oddly enough, Angel looked kind of happy, too. It wasn't an expression she was used to seeing on him. Broodingness was more his style. But this expression looked good. Sort of. In a strange, unsettling way.

Stepping over to the two of them, she shoved her hands in her back pockets and looked up at Angel. "Hey," she offered.

"Hey," he responded. They stared at one another some more. The new guy didn't say anything, just watched them both. Angel looked over at him, then nodded from him to her. "Buffy, this is Lindsey. Lindsey, this is Buffy."

The new guy -- Lindsey -- held his hand out. Buffy shook it. Nice handshake. Nice hand. Pretty guy. Kind of over-polished, but cute, for an older guy. She looked back and forth between them. Having her first love be two and a half centuries old, she considered herself fit to judge the relative cuteness of older guys.

"Nice to meet you," he offered.

"Yeah, you too," she said, distracted by the vibe between them. "Uhm, you okay, Angel?"

He smiled at her, a real smile, not the little half smile he usually gave everybody. "Yeah. Getting on with my life, you know?"

That set her back on her heels. That particular code phrase had a specific meaning. She looked at Lindsey again, looking more closely this time.

Oh, my God. She could _feel_ her eyes bugging out. Angel shrugged one shoulder.

"It kinda happened when I wasn't looking."

"What?" Lindsey asked. Was the guy clueless? Angel looked _happy_. Not the normal Angel-look.

"Me falling in love with you," Angel said matter-of-factly.

Buffy took a deep breath. That shouldn't have hurt. She took another deep breath and waited.

It hadn't hurt.

She blinked. Maybe they _were_ ready to get on with their lives, after all. It was just so _weird_. A guy? And Angel? Lindsey looked over at her.

"Is this when Angelus comes roaring out and we have to stake him?"

Hurt or no hurt, this was not a teasing zone. She gave him a dirty look.

"No," she said quellingly. "That's when you go to bed with him." Her mouth clamped shut. Lindsey carefully didn't look at Angel. Angel carefully didn't look at Lindsey. Both men carefully didn't look at Buffy. Soon into the not-looking-at-one-another stage, Buffy got the clue. "Too much information!"

At that, Angel grinned at her, and she found herself grinning back. Reaching up, she touched his cheek very gently. "Be happy. Since you can."

He gave her a very gentle look. "You too, Buffy."

She nodded, then turned away and walked back to Giles. "You want to stay the night?" she asked, not looking at them.

"I don't think so," Angel answered. It was final, but not cruel. "We've got time to make it before sunrise if we head off now."

Giles looked at her, and she looked down at her hands before looking back over at Angel.

"Thank you," she said quietly. Angel looked down at his feet. Lindsey looked at Angel. "Drive carefully."

He nodded, and she forced herself to look at Lindsey. He had turned and was watching her, an unreadable look in his eyes.

"Nice meeting you. Take care of him." Or I'll come after you and rip you into little bloody pieces, she left unspoken, but he got the message. Satisfied, she nodded at him, and he nodded back.

Willow and Giles called out their good-byes. The door closing behind them woke up Xander.

"Giles! You're home! Did I miss anything?" He looked around the room, still half asleep. Buffy shook her head.

"Just Angel." And his new boyfriend. She took the thought out, looked at it from a few different angles, then put it back away. She'd take it out and look at it again when she was alone.

This was going to take a lot of processing. On the other hand, he was happy and he _wasn't_ Angelus. So all the weirdness had an up-side. She couldn't argue with that.

 

The car was quiet for the first half hour of the drive. Finally, Lindsey stopped staring out the window and offered a comment.

"She's pretty."

"Yeah," Angel agreed.

Ten minutes later, he tried again. "Was it just me, or did Willow seem kind of freaked out by us?"

"She's a powerful Wiccan. She saw something there. Backed up what Giles told us earlier."

Lindsey nodded. "Yeah." The conversation lagged.

"The Slayer's protective of you."

Angel shrugged, staring out at the freeway in front of them.

"Possessive, too," Lindsey prodded him.

"She's getting on with her life," Angel told the night.

"You too?"

With no prior warning, Angel swung the wheel to the right and took them onto the shoulder. Lindsey grabbed hold of the dash to keep from taking a header into the windshield. Before he could catch his balance, Angel yanked off his seat belt, punched the button to release Lindsey, and pulled the startled man into his arms. Lindsey opened his mouth to ask him what the hell he was doing and Angel stole his air.

By the time the kiss was over, Lindsey was oxygen-starved, light-headed, thoroughly aroused, and had forgotten his question. Angel answered him anyway.

"Yes, I mean it. Yes, I love you. Yes, I believe in us. Yes, she gave us her blessing and yes, I'll take it. I'll take you."

"Promise?" Lindsey gasped out.

"As soon as we get home," Angel vowed. Then he fastened them both back in their seat belts and burned rubber getting back on the road.

Lindsey grinned all the way back to L.A.

 finis

 


End file.
